


Of Duty

by nottonyharrison



Series: Of Duty and Related Stories [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Use of the Force (Star Wars), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Clonecest, Espionage, F/M, Force-Sensitive CT-7565 | Rex, Half the main cast wants a piece of Commander Cody, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Platonic Life Partners, Polyamory, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesome - F/M/M, sort of identity porn if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28106355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottonyharrison/pseuds/nottonyharrison
Summary: At the dawn of a new empire, Ahsoka Tano and Captain Rex find themselves on the run from both Imperial forces, and their own personal demons. On a starship bound for Kashyyk, Commander Cody is slowly losing his sense of self, and on Coruscant, CC-5052 can't remember ever having one. Elsewhere in the galaxy, one Jedi has exiled themselves, while another is thrust into a conflict they didn't even know existed.A post order 66 AU where Rex can't leave well enough alone, and everybody else is equally self destructive.After all, what is duty when you were born for war?
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody/Ahsoka Tano, CC-2224 | Cody/CT-7567 | Rex, CC-2224 | Cody/CT-7567 | Rex/Ahsoka Tano, CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura, CT-7567 | Rex/Ahsoka Tano
Series: Of Duty and Related Stories [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133786
Comments: 78
Kudos: 184





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Of Duty, the first novel length story I've attempted in many years, and hopefully my magnum opus.
> 
> Some things of note: While this is an ensemble cast story, the leads are Ahsoka and Rex, who will appear in every chapter. This story is fully mapped out and plotted, and there are some characters tagged who do not appear until part way through the story, however do have their own character arcs and are integral to the plot. In the interest of everyone coming in with their eyes open, I have not tagged codywan as a romantic relationship specifically because in this story it is queerplatonic. I agonized over this for a long time before deciding on an & over a / however I am open to feedback on this. If I were to pick a genre for this story, it would be like... action/adventure/romance/espionage/drama/war, and while there is definitely a heavy focus on interpersonal relationships, the story itself is very much on the plot heavy side of things.
> 
> I imagine you've already taken note of the tags for this fic, however please be aware they updated regularly so keep an eye out for any content warnings if you're reading as chapters are posted. I have chosen to not use archive warnings just simply because anything involving clone romance is very much a grey area that is challenging to get your head around at the best of times, but I'm sure you've noted the ships and the rating so it's up to you to make that call.
> 
> I will attempt to post at the latest fortnightly on a Thursday, however obviously life sometimes gets in the way. My goal is to finish the whole story by the end of 2021 and barring any extreme disruption I see that being entirely realistic. There will be a blip of no or limited posting during Feb/March as I have a thing that's going to take up basically all of my time for a month or so.
> 
> If you feel so inclined, I would love it if you'd subscribe to the series this story sits in, which includes expanded scenes, prequel scenes, and other spinoffs (yes, I take requests). I'm also intending to write a novella length story that runs concurrently with this, that focusses on another two characters who are mentioned, however do not cross paths with this fic's characters (please feel free to speculate, I love watching people try and figure out a mystery and I will be dropping clues)
> 
> I welcome questions, commentary, and constructive criticism. [Swing by my tumblr and send me a message](http://nottonyharrison.tumblr.com) if you don't want to do it in the comments, or if you'd like to ask for an addition to the related spinoff/expansion series ❤
> 
> Alright, now that you've been subjected to my essay justifying all my shitty choices in this story, please go forth and read (and by this I mean I hope you haven't clicked out already)
> 
> Kudos are hugs, comments are food 🤗

They end up in a barn on Saleucami, on a farm run by a Twi’lek and a clone deserter. Ahsoka doesn’t really remember much of the journey outside of the constant and oppressive anxiety tickling the edge of her mind, and Rex’s stilted, awkward bursts of conversation.

There’s a brief impression that flits through her mind, something about Rex and friendship and… something like doubt or maybe more like sadness, but she’s too numb to put the emotions and thoughts together into a proper concept. Nobody says much, the Twi’lek, Suu, gives her some blankets and a sad smile. Rex is outside, talking quietly to the clone, Cut, she thinks. Or was it Cuff?

She sits down heavily on the floor and realizes she doesn’t really care.

She stays there for hours. Rex is moving around, arranging their meager belongings and sorting through the rations and medpac, and she sits. He passes her a bed roll and she takes it automatically, but she still sits.

“Are you hungry?”

She sits.

It feels quiet, the force. Occasionally she reaches out and feels a glimmer of brightness, a spark against the dark and her heart leaps. But then it flickers out, and she sits.

…

Rex doesn’t analyze why he decided on Saleucami. He knows he’s going to have to tell Cut about the chip at some point, and he briefly wonders if he felt some kind of debt to the man, even though he knows had he chosen some other backwater colony, Cut probably would have lived out his short life oblivious and unaffected by the order.

The order. Two words that three days ago would have been considered in a different context.

Rex picks up a box of bacta patches and lines them up next to a tube of allergy paste and some anti-radiation pills. He sets up his makeshift bed, and eats a ration bar.

Ahsoka is still sitting on the floor with her legs crossed and a blank stare. He hands her the other bed roll.

“Are you hungry?”

The stare doesn’t change.

He knows about meditating. He’d seen Anakin do it once, when they were forced to eject without their gear and spend three days on a planet with no shelter or privacy. He still remembers one of his brothers sneaking over a dune to take a shit, his head still visible as he tried to squat as low as possible, and realizes it was so long ago he couldn’t remember who it was.

“Eidetic memory my ass,” he mutters to himself, and glances back at Ahsoka. She doesn’t react.

It’s been dark outside for a few hours. The only light in the barn comes from a small chemical lamp Rex had in his emergency kit. It casts a sickly greenish yellow light around the small corner they’ve carved out away from the livestock. He glances down at his hands and inspects the dirt that’s ingrained itself into his gauntlets. It makes the small scratches and dents that have accrued over the years look like deep gouges, and he winces. He’s going to have to ditch the armor, and realizes he should probably have done it back on… that moon.

That moon.

_That moon._

And then.

Then his mind is rushing through flashes of broken plastoid and burned flesh and blood, and he’s cold. He’s so cold. His teeth are chattering and muscles are seizing until all he can feel is the dull ache of rigor and a raging headache in his temples and underneath the bacta patch on his skull.

Minutes. Hours. Days? Until Rex is sucking in sharp heaving breaths, cheeks wet and legs spasming. His arms are stuck to his chest, gauntlets pressed hard into his neck and he wrenches his body hard until he feels a squeeze, and hot breath against his cheek.

‘It’s okay, you’re okay.” Ahsoka’s voice is angry and harsh, like her throat is as raw as his.

An urge surges through Rex, unlike anything he’s felt before, and he doesn’t understand it but it’s like he can see his path laid out before him, the chaos and despair briefly parting to show a glimmer of light within his grasp. “I have to go back.”

…

Suu Lawquane has always valued competence and survival over sentiment. She knows her life is probably going to be short and of little consequence, and rather than clinging to trinkets and memories she instead chooses to find joy in the mundanity of daily life. A wet lick from an eopie, or the cheer of her children when her or Cut successfully repair one of the many ramshackle components of their cobbled together home.

There’s something different tugging at the back of her mind when she sees the Captain again though. Something that sneaks up in her chest and takes her by surprise, not unlike when she first met Cut, although without the sharp bite of attraction.

Rex has a Togruta woman with him, surely no older than nineteen or twenty. Her lekku are still slim and short, however she can see the scars of battle already cut deep into some of the markings. Suu realises with a heavy sigh that the feeling in her chest is one of sorrow.

None of them say anything, even when the Togruta looks beyond Suu towards her husband and children, her expression an indecipherable twist of lips and brow markings. Rex gestures towards the barn, and Suu nods before heading back inside to gather blankets.

They had seen the transmission on the holo, however the broadcast had seemed little more than propaganda presented as news by their new emperor. Despite his opposition to the war, Cut had expressed his disbelief in the reports of the Jedi’s deep corruption. Suu had been skeptical until she spotted the empty sabre hooks on the Togruta’s belt, the gentle touch of her hand on Rex’s shoulder, and the mournful sounds of the livestock as they walked towards the barn.

She knows they can’t stay, but she vows to help them as long as she is needed.

…

Marshall Commander Cody was a pragmatic and loyal man. He remembers this in short flashes between what has become the new norm of cold and proficient violence.

He remembers who he was.

He remembers.

He does.

Until a new order is issued and then there is only the blankness of duty.


	2. 1. The Luxury of Contemplation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my beta [stargateinmybasement](http://stargateinmybasement.tumblr.com) who turned this around so fast my posting anxiety brain sang with joy.

The outskirts of Mos Eisley are awash with the stench of tibanna gas and corpses left to rot in the heat of the midday suns. Obi-Wan Kenobi picks his way through the alleyways, carefully stepping around the scrap and scattered garbage until he reaches a door marked by the dented head of a B1 droid.

A drone lowers itself from the roof and hovers too close to Obi-Wan's face for his comfort. "State your business," it says, its singular glowing eye appearing to narrow in suspicion.

Obi-Wan suppresses the sarcastic reply that begs to escape his lips, and instead settles for a bland and emotionless "I am here to see Master Telin."

The drone's eye narrows further and appears to be computing a reply, however the door clicks open a few inches and a few moments later a hand waves it off. "It's quite alright, Eff-Seventeen. This gentleman means us no harm."

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows and smiles. "A surprising response, considering the recent events on your home world."

The door opens all the way, and the short figure of a Utai appears slightly hunched and looking as if he has aged twenty years since they last met. He steps aside and makes a gesture of welcome. "Yes, well if the rumors are true, It is my understanding you may be in just as much bantha shit as my brethren."

Obi-Wan suppresses a wince, and instead steps through the door. The single room is neat and tidy, a departure from the dirty façade of the home. A small collection of framed old fashioned two dimensional holos hang above a low sofa made from what looks like parts of a cargo container, next to a low table and a wooden chair that seems as if it's about to collapse under the weight of droid parts. He moves to sit on the sofa without invitation.

"I am terribly sorry, my friend, but it has been a rather long journey to Tatooine and my disposition is not perhaps as jovial as it once was."

Telin makes his way over to the small kitchen and busies himself with making tea. Obi-Wan takes pleasure in the small moment of peace, and allows himself to relax back into the lumpy cushioning. His head hits one of the holos. He winces and rubs the back of his skull.

There's clattering from the kitchen as Telin arranges cups and a clay pot on a small tray. "So tell me, what news from Utapau other than what I've managed to glean from the scum that passes through this skughole?"

"It sounds as if you've heard all that is of import, I'm afraid." Obi Wan nods thanks as Telin passes him a cup of grassy smelling tea. He raises an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you have anything stronger?"

Telin tosses his head back and laughs. "I should have guessed you only came to Tatooine to raid my fine selection of liquor." He shuffles the droid parts from the single chair to a bench and sits, then pulls out a drawer under the table. "What's your poison? Rum, whiskey, Rodian ale... I think I have the ingredients for a flameout here if I dig all the way to the back."

Obi-Wan reaches over, grabs the first bottle his fingers reach, and slurps at the tea to make room for a generous slosh of what turns out to be whiskey. He puts the bottle at his feet. He sits for a moment and closes his eyes. The cup rattles a little on its saucer, and he sucks in a calming breath before speaking. "I am in need of lodging, and it's my understanding you still require assistance on that moisture farm of yours?"

Telin screws up his wrinkled face, in thought, and scratches at his chin. "Oh yes... the moisture farm. Well..."

A sinking feeling passes through Obi-Wan's gut, and he sighs. "Please tell me you didn't lose _my_ moisture farm playing sabacc with criminals."

"Oh no, nothing like that Kenobi," Telin blusters. He sips politely at his tea. "You know, you really should have thought more about security. These outer rim worlds can be terribly rough, and one lorded over by a _Hutt_ no less I mean-"

"Spit it out, Telin."

"It's just a matter of a small troupe of Tusken raiders, nothing to be too concerned about."

"Oh that's just fantastic." Obi-Wan's voice has a sarcastic edge, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"The cabin is still untouched. Well, apart from the Jawas but they've long since departed," Telin says.

"So by untouched, you mean stripped bare with nothing but four walls and a door."

Telin takes another sip of tea. "Well the door may be up for debate."

Obi-Wan leans back again, careful not to knock his head this time, and puts a foot up on the table. Telin slaps it away.

"You know, this is a boots off household, you're lucky I let you inside with those dusty old clunkers."

Obi-Wan looks down at his footwear, which are covered in the fine Tatooine sand that Anakin had hated so much and is overwhelmed by a deep sorrow that grabs at his stomach until he feels queasy. He puts the tea down and takes a swig straight from the whiskey bottle.

"If I'd known telling you about the Jawas would cause you such distress I would have let you see it for yourself first."

Another swig, and Obi-Wan wipes a dribble of liquid from his chin before giving his companion a wan smile. "The straw that broke the blurrg's back, I imagine. I will admit, years of following the teachings of the Jedi have not prepared me for the loss I have suffered these past few days."

Telin looks down into the dregs of his tea, and swishes the cup before tipping it upside-down onto the saucer. He peers into the cup and frowns. "The leaves seem to think one whom you have lost does not yet have their fate decided."

Obi-Wan doesn't suppress the wince this time. "An optimistic outlook, I would say. For everyone."

...

The credits Obi-Wan has squirrelled away over years of austerity and living off the Jedi's not insubstantial dime meant he has enough for a speeder, a cargo trolley, and a small selection of utilitarian effects to ensure a comfortable if simple life. It's not until he bids his farewells to Telin that his luck runs out, and the seedy underbelly of Mos Eisley decides to make itself known proper. It's a Twi'lek with waxy coral colored skin and a greasy disposition who accosts him demanding taxes for the goods he has purchased.

"His Excellency Jabba Desilijic Tiure of Nal Hutta requests a duty for your significant purchases today, wanderer," he says. Obi-Wan is grateful not for the first time that day, that he had had the foresight to procure fresh robes. The heat of the afternoon suns, and the effects of the whiskey are beginning to wear on his patience, and he squints through his visor at Jabba's enforcer.

"And what, pray tell, does His Eminence demand in duties for my meager belongings?"

The Twi'lek scratches at his significant chins, and frowns. "Twenty percent, which Jabba assesses to be ten thousand credits."

Obi-Wan's jaw drops, and he makes a noise of disgust. "Ten thousand?" He snaps his mouth shut and centers himself. "My purchase was barely more than that, twenty percent would be three thousand."

The other man spreads his arms wide and shrugs. "Well, you know in this economy... the Republic Credit just isn't what it used to be, what can I say?"

Obi-Wan briefly considers fleeing on the speeder, however he still has the faculties to admit he doesn't like his chances, and lets out a loud sigh. "All I have is five thousand. I shall give you this, you will thank me for it, and then you will let me on your way."

He knows it's a risk, using the force so obviously, and close to where he intends to settle, however he would rather a rumor of dubious origin than imprisonment in Jabba's palace. He hands over the pouch.

"All you have is five thousand, I thank you for your contribution to Jabba's continued enrichment of Tatooine, you may be on your way."

Obi-Wan contemplates coercing the man into providing him with a droid, however restrains himself and gets on the speeder.

"Leave it, old man. Just leave it."

...

Ahsoka is sitting cross legged on the floor when Rex wakes, tinkering with something on her skirt. The rattle of metal on metal fills the barn, and Rex watches her through cracked lids as she becomes more and more frustrated until she holds her hands over the lightsaber hooks and what he can only describe as _breaks_ them off, then tosses them into her pack.

She sighs, and leans back against the crate behind her. Something passes over her features, and suddenly her face crumples and she curls in on herself until nothing remains but a blue and orange ball, shaking silently in the gloom of the early morning.

Not for the first time in his short life, Rex is confronted with an overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. It's different though - different from Umbara, or after Fives died in his arms deep in the underbelly of Coruscant. Different from his first time piloting outside of a sim, or even the first time he had been dropped into battle on Geonosis. He gets to his feet and stalks toward the door

Ahsoka stirs. "Where are you going?" Her voice is thick, and Rex blinks back tears of his own.

"Gotta take a slash."

The air outside is heavy with humidity and the smell of dirt and dung. He leans against the side of the barn, grounding himself in the noise of plastoid against wood and metal. His tongue feels cottony, like he's slept with his mouth open and he thinks of something sour until his saliva starts flowing enough to wet his dry lips.

He's angry. More than that, he's _enraged_ and the feeling is so unfamiliar it takes him a few moments to recognize the emotion for what it is.

It comes on slowly, his breathing becoming just slightly faster than normal, until he's bent over heaving in gulps of air like there's not enough oxygen in the atmosphere. Then he's heaving something else, what's left in his stomach of last night's ration spread across the ground along with yellow bile and spit. He wipes his hand across his mouth and collapses against the barn.

"Fucking...fuck."

Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and the image of rows upon rows of helmets bearing Ahsoka's brand fill his mind, and he cries.

...

Suu and Cut have put them to work helping with the harvest and the animals. It's hard work, and feels almost pointless after the years of battle and politics, but it sends him to bed at night tired enough to fall into a sleep deep enough for the nightmares to be only memory by morning, instead of a regular disturbance. It's not for a couple of weeks that he notices the shift, the constant drone of _good soldiers follow orders,_ and _kill the Jedi_ have given way to flashes of Ahsoka in that room, standing between the twin barrels of his blasters. He shoots her every time, and as she falls to the ground lifeless. Then he takes one of the DC-17s and turns it on himself.

It always stops there though, sudden and jarring, and instead shifts to Cody roaming the corridors of Obi-Wan's old attack cruiser looking for something that always seems just out of reach. He shouts at him over and over _it's all in your head it's in your head take it out_ , but Cody never hears and keeps wandering as if he's trapped in a dream of his own.

Rex convinces himself he's not dwelling on their meaning, chalking the dreams and the waking episodes up to a side effect of removing his chip. He wonders every now and then if he's going to go mad with paranoia, like Fives.

He takes small joys in his work, and in the children. He doesn't understand them, but their glee when he pushes them in a wheelbarrow, or grudgingly lifts them onto his shoulders so they can look closer at a bird up in one of the trees begins to rub off on him. They take kindly to Ahsoka as well, asking her to help them dig ditches near the reservoir to catch fish, and trap the small rodent like creatures that raid the grain in the barn.

Rex loves watching Ahsoka with the children. He'd never tell her that, worried she would get the wrong idea about her being a good mother or something equally as ridiculous. He loves seeing her smile, and the long lines of her back as she hoists a spade over her shoulders to fling wet mud behind her. He loves watching her leap from behind storage bins onto small furry creatures and holding them above her head in victory as Shaeeah and Jek dance around her in glee.

He loves the feeling he gets when she smiles at him in the evenings, and pats him on the shoulder before turning in for the night.

He hates the way he dreams of killing her every night. He hates the way he tries to imagine other ways their lives could have played out just to keep his mind from the nightmares. He hates the way he can't stop the unfamiliar feeling of... is it panic? He doesn't know, but whatever it is it makes him lose is breakfast every morning until he knows he's beginning to look even more gaunt than you would expect of a man with a genetically engineered metabolism surviving on nutrient bars to be.

He knows he can't stay here, that he's a danger to all of them, but for now it's nice.

He still doesn't know if Cut or Suu had seen Ahsoka's saber hooks, but they don't mention it and he takes it as a sign they dodged a blaster bolt. The farm is too far from any good medical facilities to consider attempting to remove Cut's chip, and he and Ahsoka agree it's unlikely the empire will ever try to activate it.

They both know it's unfair to the family, but they vow never to mention it. Not that it matters, because he knows he has to leave soon.

He has to help Cody.

...

There's a constant hum that fills the _Vigilance_ , loud enough to distract Cody from the eerie quiet of nine-thousand-odd Empire grunts going about their business.

He wonders where that thought comes from.

 _Clone Marshal Commander CC-2224_ walks towards his quarters, enjoying the staid silence of nine-thousand six-hundred and twenty-two officers, technicians, and stormtroopers of the Imperial Armed Forces.

That thought is a good thought.

That thought will keep him alive.

That thought will surely stop his mind from drifting to more unpleasant things.

Cody blinks twice and shakes his head, willing memories of _blast him_ from his mind and shaking loose the replay of General Kenobi -

_Jedi traitor -_

Falling and falling and falling until his body became nothing more than a speck and a splash in a pit deep enough to -

_Stop._

_Clone Marshal Commander CC-2224_ walks towards his quarters, enjoying the staid silence of nine-thousand six-hundred and twenty-two officers, technicians, and stormtroopers of the Imperial Armed Forces.

Good thought.

White walls. White armour. Door panel. Open. _Swish._

_Blast him._

The ship hums.

His quarters are grey and dull, nothing personal. Just how they should be. No holos of Cody -

_CC-2224_

CC-2224 and his -

Not brothers. _Clones_. Why would he have holos of fellow clones? It doesn't make sense.

He opens the drawer under his rack.

Spare blacks, underwear, hygiene kit.

He grabs the kit and flips open the lid.

Two toothbrushes.

Why does he need two toothbrushes?

The General. He had a habit of leaving his on the Venator before deploying planetside.

_Traitor!_

CC-2224 shakes his head again and tosses the kit back in the drawer, before stripping off his armor and stacking it neatly inside. He frowns at the hygiene kit.

His wrist comm lights up. He presses the button to answer, and the clinical voice of Admiral Tarkin echoes through the small berth.

"CC-2224 resume normal protocols."

It's like a fog clears, and suddenly Cody remembers. The memories rush by, flashing across his mind like the training images from when he was a cadet back on Kamino. Images of death and blood and _oh kriff what has he done?_

_What has he done?_

...

It's an explosion far off in the distance that sets them running. Three rotations marching across swampy marshes that eventually turn to arid semi-desert with little vegetation other than strange cacti like trees, and clumps of stalky sharp grass the same color as Ahsoka's skin.

The loss of their ship was inevitable, and even though she had suggested investigating the source of the fireball, Ahsoka knew it would only confirm their fears. Five minutes later, Rex had been handing her a pack and a blaster, and was already walking out the door.

There's little to say that hasn't been said during their three weeks on the farm, and Ahsoka finds herself drifting away into daydreams of what could have been. A universe where they won the war, where Padme had been successful in her clone rights legislation, and maybe Ahsoka was living in her own little apartment on Coruscant somewhere in the mid levels. Maybe Rex was there occasionally, when he wasn't away with Anakin helping rid the galaxy of despots and warlords.

She glances over at Rex, a couple of yards to her right and walking along in grim silence. His armour clacks a little, the meager rations and hard farm work of the last few weeks taking a toll on his already slim frame. He flexes his arm and yanks it backwards with a grunt, pushing his other hand into his shoulder until there's an audible click, and Ahsoka's stomach does something weird and fluttery.

"You alright?"

Rex grunts, and keeps his visor pointed forward.

"Rex."

"M'fine, just pulled something when I fell off that kriffing eopie last week."

Ahsoka twists her mouth in a wry smile. "You know it was very satisfying to see the infallible Captain Rex of the 501st landing on his ass in a bog."

Something crosses between them, it's silent and fond and Ahsoka doesn't know what to think of the sensation. She's used to feeling shadows of emotion from others, but this is different. This is almost like longing and sadness and anger mixed together into something that's uniquely _Rex_ and it's coming right at her like a blaster ray. The thought makes her falter, and she kicks a rock to disguise her misstep before angling back towards him and reaching out to grab his vambrace. "We're in this together, you know that right? I won't leave you."

"Yeah." His voice sounds weird through the modulator, like that horrible _horrible_ day, when he'd let her remove his helmet and see a side of him he hadn't shown before. Ahsoka lets his noncommittal answer go, and instead slides her hand down his arm until their fingers are laced together. Rex stiffens for a moment, but the discomfort is replaced with a squeeze, and the gentle rub of his gloved thumb against her bare skin.

They make camp not long after that. She can see the edges of a large town on the horizon, tall buildings spiky against the yellow sky. Rex sits next to her on a flat rock, munching on their few remaining nutrient bars and staring off into the distance. Ahsoka lets her mind drift back to the daydream from earlier. She imagines herself working in the senate building, perhaps as a representative to Kiros, or as a handmaiden to Senator Amidala, helping to affect change in a way she felt helpless to as a Jedi. She wonders what would have become of the clones, if they would remain as a standing army, or be allowed to live as regular citizens and be free to decide their fate as individuals. A thought passes through her mind, and she nudges Rex with her shoulder in a ding of beskar on plastoid.

"You would have made a great representative, you know."

Rex turns to her, brow raised in a silent question.

"For the clones... after the war."

He frowns, and looks down at his hands and twists the ration wrapper between his fingers. "I don't see the point in discussing what could have been, Ahsoka."

She sighs, and gets up, holding her hand out. "Give me your trash." He hands her the crumpled foil and goes to stow it away in her pack.

"I didn't mean-"

"I get it, Rex." She sucks in a deep breath and sighs, rubbing her forehead with a thumb and forefinger. "You don't have to-"

"No, I think I do." She hears his armor shifting, and cringes as she feels him come closer, embarrassed at her own sentimentality. His hand lands on her shoulder, and tugs, turning her to face him. "The future's not something I've ever had the luxury of contemplating, not now, not then, and I imagine not ever."

"Rex..." he's so close, invading her personal space, head tilted until their eyes are locked together. His hand is hot against her neck and _kriff when did that happen_. She lets out a shaky breath.

"And even if I had, it doesn't matter anyway." He smiles in a way that can only be described as bittersweet and runs the fingers of his other hand down her bare arm. She shivers and suddenly her eyes have dropped to his lips and all she can think is _kiss me kiss me kiss me kissmekissmekissmeohfortheloveof-_

His arm drops, and the other hand moves to her shoulder, and it's like a bucket of ice water has been dropped over her head. She clears her throat. "Yeah you're totally right, besides they would never let a fourteen year old be a diplomat," she says in a voice heavy with irony. Rex barks out a laugh, and he shoves her gently.

"Speaking of, you ever hear about the epic crush Commander Fox has on Senator Chuchi?" Rex reaches down and picks up his bed roll, and spreads it out on the ground under the shelter of the rocky overhang they've made their camp.

Ahsoka screws up her nose. "Oh, ew. Fox? That guy was the worst even when he _wasn't_ trying to kill me."

Rex snorts, and pulls out his sleep sack.

They shuffle around the camp in preparation for sleep, the moment from before apparently forgotten in favor of an easy banter. The yellow haze has given way to a deep indigo, the soft glow of Saleucami's moons and the galaxy beyond enough to light their movements. Rex unzips his sack and covers himself, still fully armored in case they need to make a swift exit, and Ahsoka follows suit. She's asleep as soon as her head hits the ground.

...

_**Felucia, three weeks earlier** _

There's blood, so much blood. Bodies are strewn across the battlefield, and CC-5052 stands in the middle, stoic and sharp in his assessment of the casualties.

The Jedi traitor is dead. Her body lays at his feet, lifeless and limp.

_Good soldiers follow orders._

CC-5052 activates his wrist comm as he wedges the front of his boot under the body, flipping it over until her blank eyes look up into his helmet. "Pack it up, men. We're going home."


	3. 2. Imperial Threat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta [stargateinmybasement](http://stargateinmybasement.tumblr.com)
> 
> As usual, I am very receptive to constructive comments and my [askbox is open on tumblr](http://nottonyharrison.tumblr.com/ask) for anyone who does not feel comfortable sharing here. I also welcome questions and (of course) new followers 😘

Despite a military retreat, Felucia had been an unmitigated success. The ship is deathly silent as CC-5052 makes his way to the bridge, the only sound the thud of his boots hitting the durasteel deck. He passes a number of clones on his way, but doesn’t bother to acknowledge them, intent only on completing his mission.

CC-5052 reporting in. Successful termination of the Jedi Traitor Aayla Secura. Awaiting orders.

Thud. Thud. Thud Thud.

Successful termination.

Thud.

Awaiting orders.

_Good soldiers follow orders._

Thud. Thud. _Swish._

The bridge is a hive of activity, with Admiral Kilian standing stoic and tense in the middle as he barks out orders to the navigation officers. The admiral looks up as the door opens, and raises his brows.

“Commander Bly, report.”

“CC-5052 reporting successful termination of the Jedi Aayla Secura. Awaiting orders, sir.”

“At ease, trooper.”

CC-5052 clasps his hands behind his back and stands at parade rest as he takes in the admiral’s demeanor. The man has an air of uncertainty around him that makes CC-5052 uneasy. He pushes the feeling aside. Human emotions are not something for clones to concern themselves with.

Kilian raises a hand to his forehead and pinches until a deep crevice appears in his skin, as if he has a headache, then drops both hands to the edge of the holotable and bends over until his head hangs low and his spine curves like the back of a blurrg. He straightens up a few moments later, his expression returned to the more acceptably impassive one befitting a military officer.

“We shall be returning to Coruscant, Commander. Please prepare the men for redeployment upon our arrival,” he says. His mouth pinches into a sour grimace. “You are to replace Commander Fox in the Guard and should report directly to Vice Chair Amedda for briefing.”

A flash of concern passed through CC-5052’s mind, but CC-1010 was just another clone, and clones are just numbers, and numbers are meaningless outside of a sentient's obsession with categorizing and quantifying and designating. CC-5052 is the designation given to him but it has no meaning because he is the same as all the others.

 _Kill the Jedi_.

“Understood, sir.”

…

_“Cody.”_

_“Cody, no!”_

_The echo of Rex’s boots reverberate down the starship corridor, and he’s running, running, running and screaming but all he sees is an endless tunnel of white and black, empty and cold until suddenly he’s in the vacuum of space, drifting only half conscious and looking up at the haze of a nebula. The red, purple and orange cloud shifts, until it becomes pricks of light above him, separated by a freezing cold viscous liquid which turns everything around him blood red. A scream._

“Kriff!”

Rex’s foot kicks into a fallen branch, and he tumbles to the ground, landing on his bad shoulder. He grunts in pain. There’s the scratch of boots on hard dirt, and Ahsoka’s leaning over him with a concerned look.

“You need a break, Rexter?”

Rex pushes himself into a sitting position and rolls his arm around until he hears a grind of bone on bone and a click. “Nah, I’m good.”

Ahsoka crouches down and rests her hand under his pauldron, then releases the spaulder underneath. She tosses it to the ground and presses her fingers around the painful joint until he winces.

“I need to take a look at it, can you take off your armour?” she asks. Rex ignores the flutter in his stomach and the soft concern in her eyes and frowns.

“I’m _fine_. I’ve had worse, let's just get on with it.” He bats away her hand and snatches up the piece of armor lying in the dirt.

“Rex…”

He glares and pushes himself to his feet. Ahsoka steps back, and a flash of hurt crosses her face before she pushes into his personal space and backs him into a nearby tree. His heart is thudding so hard in his chest he’s afraid it will burst right through his chestplate, and he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. His shoulder is aching. He knows it’s probably dislocated and there’s a risk of nerve damage if he doesn’t do something about it, but the idea of Ahsoka poking around his naked torso makes him shiver in a way that fills him with a deep sense of shame.

It snuck up on him, this immense need to be around her. He didn’t really notice it until she left the order, and his heart burned with the kind of grief that can only come from losing someone who means more to you than anyone else in the galaxy. When he’d seen her on the Resolute, before Mandalore, it was like dropping out of hyperspace too close to atmosphere. That feeling of gravity suddenly catching up with you, your brain sloshing around in your skull until you’re dizzy and struggling to breathe but you know that you’ve made it and you’re going to be fine.

Rex has never really understood the concept of home. Kamino was the place he was trained, raised, and would always be a part of him. The Resolute was his station. His brothers… he doesn’t want to think about them right now. But Ahsoka? Yeah, maybe. And it scares the everloving banthashit out of him.

And Cody. Cody and his dry wit, and fierce loyalty, and unwavering sense of self.

Rex is disgusted with himself.

He’s jolted back to reality when he feels a cool hand against his cheek.

“Hey, hey look at me.” Ahsoka’s voice is cautious. “You have to let me take a look, if it’s dislocated it might cause damage to your blood vessels, and the last thing we need right now is for you to lose your arm.”

Rex keeps his eyes squeezed shut and begins detaching his armor, conceding her point. It’s not until he releases the grip seal of his blacks, and pulls down the nanoprene with a hiss of pain, that she speaks again.

“Shit, Rex.”

“Bad?”

Ahsoka lets out a short, mirthless bark of laughter. “You’ve had worse.”

He opens his eyes a crack and looks down at her fingers prodding gently at the joint. His shoulder is black and purple with bruising, and there’s a flush of mottled red around his acromion.

“Look, we’ve got two options here,” she says with a sigh. “Either we risk finding a doctor when we get to the city, or I use the force.”

Rex rolls his eyes. “Your force healing abilities are garbage.”

“Hey!”

Rex tilts his mouth in something he thinks might resemble a smile. “Go ahead, give it a crack. Not like you’re gunna make it worse.”

She closes her eyes in concentration, and between twinges of bone grinding and tendons realigning, Rex begins to formulate a plan.

…

Mas Amedda’s office is obscenely opulent and filled with trinkets and trophies both gifted and won. CC-5052 wrinkles his nose in disgust as he spies the shrunken head of what looks like a Lurmen resting on top of a large unmarked tome. Why someone would want to keep trophies of other beings is none of his business, but he finds the practice distasteful nonetheless. Once something is dead there’s no use for it, leave the corpse for the scavengers, or bury it to rot.

He moves to stand at attention in front of the large wooden desk, eyes front and spine rigid. “CC-5052 reporting for duty, sir.”

Amedda glances up from the datapad he has been perusing. “CC-5052. The Emperor has assigned you to command the Imperial Guard. You are to report to the Central Detention Centre to oversee the transfer of prisoners to The Eclipse. From there CT-6985 will brief you on the current active operations, and escort you to the Imperial barracks. Any questions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Proceed.”

“Sir, may I inquire about the current state of the Republic?”

Amedda wrinkles his nose and lifts his lips in a sneer. “My you have been out of the loop, 5052. The republic is no more, Emperor Palpatine has taken control of the senate and will be reconstructing this… messy alliance of planets into something far more orderly.”

“Yes sir.” CC-5052 likes the sound of this. Tidy organization and a clear chain of command makes following orders far more straightforward.

“Dismissed.” The Chagrian turns back to his data pad, and CC-5052 snaps a salute, before turning back to the door.

“Oh, and Commander?”

He spins back around and stands to attention. “Yes sir.”

“Please ensure all personalization of armor is removed. Any trooper to breach uniform regulations should be executed without trial. The Emperor has no use for clones who will not perform the duty they were commissioned for..”

CC-5052 nods. “Consider it done, sir.”

Amedda gives him a toothy, sinister grin, and waves his hand in dismissal.

…

She can feel his life force humming in his cells, a steady pulse of energy that tastes of fresh rain and something else… burned rubber? Like a fire burning in a monsoon. The heat of Saleucami’s early afternoon sun drifts away until all Ahsoka can feel is Rex. Rex and his kindness and loyalty, and… shame. Wait, what?

“We need to split up.”

Ahsoka’s eyes fly open, and her hand clenches on Rex’s shoulder. “What do you mean, split up?” she asks, brow scrunched in confusion. “We’re stronger together, you know this.”

Rex shakes his head, and pushes her hand away. “We’re in more danger together. A clone and a Togruta? There’s like, what, a few million of you tops? You’ll be safer without the most recognizable face in the galaxy by your side.”

She spreads her arms wide, before dropping them to her sides with a heavy slap. “Oh so you suddenly can’t wear a helmet any more? Three years of only taking it off for a bit of fresh air and all of a sudden you’re all _oh no Ahsoka I couldn’t possibly._ ”

Rex frowns, as if he doesn’t know how to respond, and realization starts to bloom in Ahsoka’s mind. “You don’t _want_ to stay together.”

Rex hangs his head in something like shame. “It’s not that I-”

“After everything we’ve been through.”

“ _And I don’t want to put you through any more._ ”

Ahsoka glances down, his fists are clenched and shaking, his breath is coming in short pants, and he’s sagged against the tree.

“What are we going to do? Planet hop? Go hide out in the Unknown Regions and hope we find somewhere habitable?” Rex runs a hand across his scalp and sighs. “If we split up, we can just slip into the crowd, become shadows.”

A tear slips down Ahsoka’s cheek, and she sucks in a shaky breath. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You’ve done it before.” His eyes meet hers, and he raises his hand to her face before pressing his forehead to hers. “You’re the strongest, most adaptable person I’ve had the pleasure to call my friend, and I know you can do this.”

His skin is smooth and warm, and Ahsoka can’t help but press harder, as if she’s trying to glue them together. “Rex I-” _I love you._

Kriff, where did that come from?

“You can _do this_.” He’s emphatic. Golden brown eyes burn into hers, and she feels like her chest is tearing down the middle, her heart left beating outside her ribcage to be torn and stabbed and stomped on.

“I don’t want to,” she says, almost a whisper.

“I know.”

…

“No, not that one, he’s to be put aboard The Oracle for transport to Kamino.” CC-5052 watches as one of the troopers pushes the other clone towards the other end of the shipyard. There’s something familiar about him, he’s obviously one of the older models, his body beginning to take on the bulky upper body profile he and many of his fellow clone commanders have developed over the course of the war. When he had discovered the unit imprisoned in the Central Detention Centre, CC-5052 had asked CT-6985 why he had not been executed. The file had said he was to be analyzed for defective biological components, with his designation redacted, and CC-5052 had felt something he couldn’t identify working its way down his spine until his toes twitched in his boots.

“Commander, all prisoners aboard and ready for transport.”

CC-5052 turns to the other commander and nods. “Very well, Sergeant. Please give the all clear to the command crew and proceed to base for sonic cleaning of your armor.”

CT-6985 salutes and marches off in the direction of the nearest troop transport, and CC-5052 returns his gaze to The Oracle, where the older trooper is being loaded onto the ship. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head to clear the uneasy feeling.

It’s not something to concern himself with.

All around him, technicians and mechanics are rushing to meet the deadline for launch, their work satisfactory, and CC-5052 leaves them to their tasks, satisfied they will be carried out to the letter under threat of court martial, or in the case of his fellow clones, execution.

The return to base is uneventful, his speeder performing admirably as it negotiates the traffic lanes of the capital. The lanes are quiet, mostly filled with merchants and military personnel, and CC-5052 struggles to remember a time Coruscant had been so peaceful.

He can’t remember.

When was the last time he was here?

Has he ever been here?

Of course he has, he has no need for navigation, and the muscles of his arms and legs know the transition of gears and when to let off the throttle around each corner and through each level shift.

But he can’t remember.

It’s dark and he’s in a corridor.

How did he get here?

“Commander, ready to breach perimeter,” a trooper says through the comm channel, and CC-5052 snaps back to the clear reality of the present.

“On my mark, three… two… one… breach,” he orders. The three troopers at the front of the group activate a concussive blast, the door is blown open, and all hell breaks loose.

He remembers now. They’re raiding an apartment suspected of harboring Jedi younglings. They had not been at the temple when the troops of the 501st had performed the executions.

_Kill the Jedi._

A lightsaber flashes, and he shoots. A young Nautolan girl collapses, a charred black mark between her eyes.

 _Good soldiers follow orders_.

CC-5052 turns toward another flare, this time green, but before he can fire his helmet is ripped from his head and everything goes black.

…

_Order ninety-seven - Internal fault recorded. Report to Kamino for diagnostic and reconditioning_

_Order ninety-eight - Imperial threat. Execute all civilians who resist subjugation_

_Order ninety-nine - Failure to obey verbally issued orders. Self terminate at earliest convenience_

_Order one hundred - Disloyal agent identified. Risk of further treason. Initiate self destruct sequence of current vessel_

_Order one hundred and one - Mass failure of company. All troopers to perform self termination._

They won’t stop.

Orders and orders and orders and where is his blaster?

Where is his blaster?

No. _NO._

Bly wakes with a gasp and a jerk. The room is filled with the clean smell of ozone with an underlying stench of burned flesh, and he gags. His head is pounding, pain radiating from a point on the top left of his skull, and he raises his hand to the wound. It comes away bloody, with small pieces of singed hair clinging to the skin of his palm.

“Shit.”

He looks around, and is confronted with bodies of both civilians and the clean shiny white armor of fellow troopers. Why is his whole squad shinies? “General…”

The general, where is she? He sits up, head lolling back heavily, and searches the room for General Secura but she’s nowhere to be found.

What is he doing here?

His brain feels like liquid sloshing around in a tank.

Why is he…

The trooper to his right is obviously dead, the wide hole of a blaster exiting armor bursting through the back of his chestplate, and he tugs off the helmet. The face that greets him has familiar triangle tattoos resembling teeth along the right side of his jaw, and a bleached blond patch in his obviously recently shaved hair.

“...Hound?” Bly searches the room, eyes eventually falling on a slain massif half buried underneath two civilian casualties.

Something snaps in his brain, and the barrage of orders is back, interspersed with images of Mas Amedda, of an unidentified clone, of Aayla falling into the muddy, rotting bog of Felucia.

Bly screams.

The gaping wound in his head is pounding and he claps his hand against it once more, this time feeling the sharp skull fragments poking into his calloused skin.

_Order sixty-six - The Jedi are traitors to the Republic. Kill the Jedi. All non complying troopers should be executed on sight with extreme prejudice_

“ _Aayla,”_ he gasps.

Fuck, fuck. _Fuck_.

He’s speaking. He doesn’t know how he didn’t realize but he’s reciting all the words running through his mind and Bly presses the record function on his wrist comm without thinking.

He can feel the tears running down his cheeks now, the burn of his chest as he struggles to take a breath between orders-

_Good soldiers follow-_

“Order twenty-seven - Imperial threat. Execute all senators loyal to the Old Republic.”

 _Orders_.

“Order thirty-two - Threat to the Emperor. Protect the Emperor at all costs regardless of casualties.”

Another and then another until finally he’s come back around again and a searing pain like someone is branding his brain with a hot poker, and Bly is no more.

CC-5052 raises from his position on the floor, bloody hand dropping to his side, and he picks through the bodies, occasionally rolling them with his boot. He raises his comm to his wrist.

“CC-5052 reporting successful termination of all targets. One trooper survivor requesting medical evaluation upon return to base.

_“Acknowledged, CC-5052.”_

A light blinks next to the data storage button, and he frowns. He doesn’t remember recording anything.

He must have accidentally started a memo when he was hit on the head.

He has no use for the sound of battle followed by silence.

He hits the delete button and leaves the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented, subscribed, bookmarked, and given kudos! You are all wonderful and appreciated.


	4. 3. Boots on the Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, Thank you to my beta [stargateinmybasement](http://stargateinmybasement.tumblr.com) 😊

The _Negotiator_ and its successor had always been buzzing with activity, thousands of troopers, droids, and human officers trading insults and jokes, tall tales. Sometimes bodily fluids. Obi-Wan hates that he misses it. The Tatooine wastes are somewhat dreary in their emptiness, nothing but endless fine sand, rocks, and dunes that all compete against the hazy yellow tinged sky.

A sandstorm is sweeping across the northern part of the sector, and Obi-Wan tracks the movement of it as it traverses the horizon. He’s less than a day's ride away from the cabin, but it’s deep in the heart of the storm. The suns have dipped below the highest reaches, and he stops the speeder near the burned out carcass of an old freighter half buried in a tall dune.

His camp is rudimentary, little more than an emergency mattress to keep the sand out of his clothing, and a scratchy blanket that itches at his neck as the sky darkens and the air cools. He’s slept in far worse circumstances, the three nights he had spent on Manpha comes to mind - camped out with Cody on muddy ground, huddled under a weighed down tarp to keep off the improbably large venomous bugs.

_Cody._

He’s deduced Cody was the one to give the order to shoot - the only logical answer, really - and his stomach twists with deep regret. If only he’d paid more attention… asked more questions about that trooper from Anakin’s battalion - Fives? He realizes the war has long since clouded his curiosity with things unbefitting of a jedi.

War. Hubris. Attachment.

He lies on his side, the rubber bedroll not quite thick enough to stop his shoulder digging into the sand that’s drifted under the blasted open side of the ship. The sky above the sandstorm is beginning to prick with the light of millions of objects, and the bright orange of Ea sticks out, its fire burning strong against the slowly dimming violet. Obi-Wan wonders if it’s ironic that he’s exiled himself here, right next to where this whole mess began.

Sometimes he wonders how everything would have played out had Cody been deployed to Geonosis along with the first battalions. Would he have survived, or would it have been another commander who gave the order to kill? When Obi-Wan had first met Cody, the commander was laid up in a medbay on Coruscant in dirty plain white armor, a dent in his helmet and a droid attempting to cut away the plastoid with a laser torch. It was the first time he’d ever heard a clone swear, a long colorful string of kriffs, fucks, and motherfuckers that had made Obi-Wan chuckle into his glove until the droid had succeeded in its task, and the long crusted over gash and Cody’s blood covered face had finally emerged.

If he’s honest with himself, Obi-Wan knows it was attached from that very moment, the memory of Cody’s cringe and subsequent garbled apology giving him a warm feeling that floods through his veins.

Is he even really a Jedi any more? With the order decimated and those of them remaining scattered throughout the galaxy, hiding in whatever backwater shithole they can find?

No, he doesn’t think he is.

And as a tear slips down the side of his face, cooling in the night breeze, Obi-Wan finally lets himself sleep.

…

Shit, it’s cold. It’s always been a degree or so off comfortable on Republic starships, but the Empire has the power set to focus on weapons and engineering to the detriment of comfort. Or maybe they’ve deliberately diverted resources to set them all on edge.

Cody grits his teeth and tugs on his boots. It’s been three days since he’d remembered, and he’s been operating on autopilot ever since, employing meditation techniques Obi-wa - The General - had taught him years ago to keep his focus.

He’s back in the communal barracks, eight to a room with other senior clone officers. HIs old cabin had been taken over by some wet behind the ears sergeant major who could barely use his own blasters. Cody had had the pleasure of being in his company only once, witnessing his simpering worship of the admiral first hand. The piece of shit has access to one of the few refreshers with water on the ship, and Cody can’t help but wonder who he was fucking for the privilege.

The cabin is empty apart from himself and Sergeant Barlex - CT-1947 he reminds himself - who is asleep two bunks down.

Cody takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as he attaches the orange pauldron, and raises the plain white helmet. The plastoid still bears the scars of battle, scuffs and dents, some still ingrained with a tiny bit of orange from before. He’s held himself together, from what he can tell. None of the other troopers - stormtroopers - seem to be aware anything is amiss, going about their duties mostly in silence and only talking when necessary. The only time he sees any of them without their buckets on is in the fresher, or when they’re asleep, and he tamps down the urge to wallow in how lonely it is without the camaraderie and occasional rough housing and friendly bets.

They wake up. They do tasks befitting of an indentured servant built for and drafted into the military. They shower. They sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

He’s still figuring out what to do. Desertion isn’t going to happen while they’re in orbit, and he knows he’s not interested in participating in a fascist regime. And yes, despite the newness and the positive propaganda about uniting the galaxy under a banner of peace and order, he knows exactly what it is he’s working for.

Working?

Is it working when you’re a... 

Cody shakes his head and pushes the word from his mind. He’s not like Slick, prepared to sacrifice everyone for a chance at his own freedom. He’s considered eating his blaster more than once, but every time he resolves to raise it at the next opportunity Obi-Wan’s face flashes across his mind with some of the soothing banthashit he was always spouting, and he thinks _just one more day_.

And then there’s the dreams.

Never of Obi-Wan. Always of Rex. Rex and his kriffing stupid bleached hair, and his selfless determination, and his repressed desires. Rex would have a plan, even if it just involved shooting a bunch of officers and dealing with the consequences later.

 _Fuck_.

Cody locks the seals on his helmet, and storms off toward the bridge.

....

Ahsoka is embarrassed.

No, _mortified_ . Mortified at what she can only think of as a sappy show of emotion, and the memory of thinking _that_ about someone who’s been her subordinate for years, but despite appearances is technically not even fifteen yet.

_Oh wow you’re a kriffing sleemo, Ahsoka._

She shudders, and focuses instead on putting one foot in front of the other. Rex says something about skirting around to the east, and she grunts a response.

It’s nearly four weeks since they landed on the unnamed moon, and she’s largely closed herself off from the force since, apart from the odd meditation and the below average healing job she’d done on Rex’s shoulder a few hours earlier. It’s not that she thinks it’s dangerous, the tether she had to Anakin had severed not long after the crash, and she hasn’t been able to sense Master Plo for years. It’s the flashes of pain that come at random times, disturbances that feel like having your brain scraped down the side of a vegetable grater, juddering and skipping over half blunt bits of metal that leave tears and bruising, and a deep emptiness.

She can’t pinpoint locations or people, but sometimes she would swear the projections are coming from somewhere so close that the rawness she feels afterwards is somehow worse. Almost like someone has inadvertently formed a bond with her without her consent or knowledge, and her thoughts briefly flash to Maul. She grits her teeth.

No, not him. There’s pain and anger but also a feeling of empathic hopelessness that she would never associate with Maul.

She squints into the distance. The landscape is beginning to shift to something resembling the outskirts of a city that was under fire but hasn’t yet recovered. Saleucami isn’t a rich world by any means, instead focused on trading which had been stymied by the war, but even then the slow rate of repair is surprising.

They cross a road, still showing the scars of battle with a large crater just north of their location. Suu had alluded to the destruction closer to the city, but the reality is jarring. Scavengers in a large speeder fly past, a few hundred meters to the north towards a crawler that has collapsed on its front two legs a couple of klicks away, and to the south, a small cluster of tents flaps in the mid afternoon wind coming off the nearby sea.

Before they’d set the hyperspace coordinates, Rex had warned her about a Republic battalion led by General Allie stationed near the capital. They were on the other side of the planet, but as they move nearer to the slums on the outskirts of Osala she shifts her mind from distraction to hyperfocus, eyes and ears alert for the sound of any trooper boots other than Rex’s.

“Do you think we should divert, come at the city from the south?” she asks.

Rex pauses for a moment, squinting against the harsh sunlight. He unclips his helmet from his hip, puts it on his head, and takes another look. “Nah, best to just stick with the Eastern quarter. Cut said the path through to the spaceport is more direct and less likely to have a Republic presence.” He pulls the helmet back off and reattaches it to his belt. “You take the northern end, it’s a Pantoran neighborhood, they’ll be more welcoming to you. I’ll go down the guts of it.”

“Roger roger.” She twists her mouth into a sardonic smile, and he puts his hand on her shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

His hand squeezes. “Yeah, kid. I’ll be good.”

...

The moisture harvester is beyond repair. The cabin is in fine condition, a little dusty from being unoccupied for so long, but serviceable if not comfortable.

Obi-Wan sighs, and considers the future of surviving off dry rations, what little water he can glean from his travel condenser, and the purified distillation of his own piss.

Force, he needs fresh food.

He can’t remember the last time. Probably scavenging some local fruit on a planet a few campaigns ago. Definitely not in the last six months.

He has a vague memory of one of the troopers blasting stun bolts at a tree to knock free a pile of large round pods, filled with a revolting goo like substance that turned out to be straight protein and pheromones.

Obi-Wan gags at the memory. Maybe rations are okay for now.

He’s going to have to do something about the harvester, even if he doesn’t end up using the hydroponics bay. With Tatooine’s dry air, and the limited capacity of the condenser, he figures he has around ten days before he starts to suffer from dehydration, and he can’t afford to return to Mos Eisley. Mos Espa is closer, but he has no contacts in the city, and doesn’t trust it won’t have a small trooper presence.

He sits down on one of the benches, and the tough fabric squeaks under his weight.

The moisture farm. He has to go to the moisture farm.

It might mean death, dismemberment, perhaps an injury that kills him slowly, so he can die in agonizing pain and wallow in his own regret as his body slowly gives itself to the force.

The flop of his body against the bench, and the frustrated cry ring out harsh and hollow in the bare space.

Regret is right.

The lightsaber on his hip digs into his thigh as he rolls over and he snatches it off the hook and tosses it hard into the stone wall on the other side of the room.

...

_He’s handing the lightsaber to General Kenobi._

_He’s handing it to him and--_

“CC-2224.” Admiral Tarkin’s cold voice breaks through his thoughts, and Cody’s mind snaps to attention.

He’s on the bridge of the _Resolute II_. Not Utapau. Not there.

“Yes sir,” he says, hoping his voice is strong and clear through the modulator of his helmet.

“Prepare a squad of troopers to rendezvous with the _Pioneer_ for deployment to Ryloth.”

Cody wrinkles his brow under the helmet, but replies in the affirmative. Why the _Pioneer_ would need an additional squad is beyond him, but he supposes that’s no longer any of his concern.

The Admiral and the other commanding officers continue their session, ignoring his presence, and freely discussing their disdain of clones. He wonders if Tarkin remembers the order he had given him days before.

Is he testing him?

Or does he not realize the order to resume normal protocols had negated whatever brainwashing the Kaminoans had programmed into him.

Karking _Fives_.

He can’t believe he didn’t think of it before. Rex had told him about the ARC’s conspiracy theory not long before the Captain had been deployed to Mandalore. He’d detailed the grievance report he’d filed while they’d shared a contraband bottle of Corellian whiskey, a tradition they’d begun the first time they’d been stationed together on Christophsis.

Then his mind drifts to what happened after and his cheeks flush. For the first time since coming back to himself, he’s glad the Imperial command doesn’t want to be reminded that he and his fellow clones are human. The new uniform regs help perpetuate the rumor they’re all little more than droids in a meatsack. The helmet requirement also helps hide Cody’s far too expressive face.

The few quiet conversations he’s overheard between commissioned officers in the last few days have often centered around the prejudiced beliefs being encouraged in the ranks, and Cody’s lip raises in a sneer when he recalls a passing comment from a lieutenant commander. _Do you think they fuck each other? Do they even have dicks?_

Not that fucking a fellow clone is okay. Cody knows it’s messed up.

Like really _really_ messed up.

But then Cody also has these weird feelings for Gener-- Keno - The General that aren’t romantic but also aren’t platonic either, and he ordered his troops to shoot him, so messed up just seems to be the default nowadays.

_Blast him._

And then he’s back on Utapau, watching the enormous lizard creature fall from the cliff face, General Kenobi a speck next to it, down, down down, until he can’t see anything but a dot of white, a splash, the only sound that of blaster fire and battle all around him.

_Shit._

He can feel his breathing quicken, rasping in his throat. He’s seen this before, on troopers in their first combat situation. They’d never been told about normal human anxiety reactions on Kamino, the training instead favoring strategy and skill. Even as a command officer, he’d always deferred to the squad medic when they’d had cases of shell shock or battle fatigue, the affected troopers often returned to Tipoca City for reconditioning.

Oh god had he really _murdered_ his brothers by proxy?

Why was this only occurring to him now?

His vision narrows to just a small tunnel, Tarkin in the center of it staring at him in expectation.

“Commander!”

Cody coughs, and sucks in a thin breath. “Sir,” he chokes out.

“I trust you understand the order.”

Cody’s heart begins to race, the shortness of oxygen beginning to bleed through to his thought process, and he grasps on the only excuse he can manage. “Something wrong with my regulator, sir. Repeat please.”

“The remainder of the battalion is to be deployed to Kashyyyk.” Tarkin’s smile is the only point of focus now, thin and menacing. “Execute order ninety-eight. Inform the stormtroopers upon completion to revert to order zero zero one.”

 _Execute order ninety-eight_.

_Imperial Threat: Execute all civilians who resist subjugation_

CC-2224’s breath evens out, his vision clears, and he snaps a salute. “And non civilians, sir?”

Tarkin’s smile turns into a sneer. “Wookie warriors can be very useful under the right conditions. Capture as many as you can, otherwise kill them.”

“Yes sir.”

“Dismissed.”

CC-2224 drops his hand to his side, and turns.

Door panel. Open. _Swish._ White walls. White armor.

Boots on durasteel.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The ship hums.

…

They decide to part ways when they reach a tree, its green foliage a clear marker standing out a couple of klicks away against the brown and grey of the city. Rex keeps putting one foot in front of the other.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The gravel and dirt under his boots unsettles him, reminds him of battle and not of the somewhat comforting durasteel corridors of starships and Tipoca City.

He reminds him Geonosis, of Tatooine, the Rishi Moon. Of _The Moon._

Rex shakes his head and instead rewinds to Rishi, when he’d first met Fives and Echo. Right after Rex and Cody had started their _thing._

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Boots on the ground.

_The inspection task is supposed to be light duties, effectively a way to be given leave without the need to jump through GAR regulation hoops, and Rex enjoys the long periods of hyperspace at first, until he doesn’t. He’s bored. And when Rex gets bored, he gets horny._

_On a normal day, the boredom is waylaid by duty, whether it’s battle, strategy, or the opportunity to punch someone in the training rooms._

_The Kaminoans weren’t disingenuous. They knew their project was cloning humans, and humans had desires and urges just like most other species. Most of the clones inferred their creators didn’t understand it personally - they’d been conditioned to be compliant, not ignorant. And so they’d had a crash course in reproductive education at the age of six, with various species diagrams, prophylactic information, and ways they could contain the inconvenience of sexual impulses. Nothing about what those impulses would feel like, or any understanding of romance or attraction. After all, why would a clone soldier need to understand romance when the only thing their penis was good for was infiltration and espionage._

_The first time he’d felt desire, he thought he was ill. His skin felt hot and cold all at once, and his pores got all bumpy like they did when he was dumped in the tank on the days they were doing ice planet training. It wasn’t until he was in his pod with a stiffie that he’d cottoned on to what was happening._

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Boots on the ground.

_He doesn’t even remember who it was. Some nameless brother with a designation only and a scar on his cheek from a training accident, he thinks. How old was he? Seven? He doesn’t know how, but he’s aware the other clone is long dead. Before he’d even had the chance to experience life off Kamino._

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

_The first time he’d seen CC-2224, with his rigid posture and cool demeanor, he’d felt it again. Rex had been the only CT thrust into a group of command stock clones, feeling hopelessly out of his depth. Determined to succeed. 2224 wasn’t any different to the rest of them. He was the same height - one hundred and eighty-three centimeters - the same skin tone, the same body shape. The same face._

_But then he’d found himself in his pod again that night, exhausted and strung out on stims, jerking off to the thought of a firm hand squeezing his shoulder for a job well done, and a quirk of the lips that hinted at something else below the sameness._

_Rex Isn’t so uncouth as to just ask Cody if he wants to fuck._

_“The scar’s hot, you know.” It’s an excuse. Not that the scar isn’t sexy as all hells because_ shit _but also..._

_“What…?” The cockpit is small, their seats one in front of the other with Rex in the forward, but he can feel Cody’s mental whiplash even if he can’t see it written on his face. “It’s the same temperature as the rest of my face.”_

_Rex pauses for a moment, considering returning to friendly camaraderie and forgetting he’d ever opened his big gob._

Fuck it _._

_No, I mean it’s attractive,” he says, cringing internally and praying to the force that his reflection isn’t visible against the swirling hyperspace on the other side of the transparisteel._

_“I uh.” There’s a long pause. “Thanks?”_

_“You’re welcome.”_

_“I’m not self-conscious about it, if that’s what this is about.” Cody’s response is rushed, and Rex can feel the other man’s defensiveness closing in, almost like he’s shoved his bucket back over his head._

_Rex thinks for a few moments, eventually decides if he’s going to embarrass himself while stuck in a confined space with the object of his lust he may as well go big or go back to the kriffing Resolute. “I mean it’s attractive. To_ me. _”_

_“...oh.”_

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Boots on the ground.

 _Why can he_ feel _him? It’s all confusion and self hatred and betrayal but underneath it all something that feels like this intense kind of want that makes Rex’s breath hitch and his blood rush in his ears._

_“Rex--”_

_“It's okay you don’t have to say anything.” A lick of panic creeps up Rex’s spine._

_Cody lets out a long whoosh, something like the breathing exercises they’d all been taught to tamp down panic. There’s a rattle that can only be a harness unlatching, followed by the clanking and rustling of someone working their way out of the tight confines of the cockpit and heading aft. Rex tips his head back against the headrest with a heavy sigh of defeat, and closes his eyes._

_The chair jerks forward as a heavy weight leans against it, and it’s not until his lap is filled with orange and white armor that he realizes what’s happening._

_Cody._

_Marshall Commander Cody is straddling him in the cockpit of some unnamed shuttle, and his breath is hot on his face._

_No..._

_No his lips are on Rex’s._

_Cody’s lips are on Rex’s and his hands are running over his buzzed hair, and he’s never wished he’d grown it out but fuck, he never thought about Cody’s hands tugging on it until now, and he’d forgo the low maintenance if it means he can experience_ that _._

_It’s all lips and teeth and tongue and the tearing of hands at codpieces and that little flap they all have to make it easy to take a piss and Rex is gasping into the kiss like he’s just burst out of the tank after six minutes of burning lungs, except he’s hot. He’s so hot it’s like his skin is on fire._

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Boots on the ground.

Just like Geonosis. Just like Tatooine. Just like the Rishi Moon. Just like--

_Snap!_

Rex looks down in surprise at the branch. 

It’s quiet. They’ve stopped. Rex looks to his left.

“So this is it, I guess.” Ahsoka stares at her boots and kicks at a rock. It bounces across the dry dirt, and hits Rex’s toe.

Rex files his trip down memory lane away, runs his hand over the back of his neck, and bites his lip. “I uh… yeah, yeah I guess.”

His eyes meet hers, and she tilts her mouth in a sad smile, and his heart clenches in his chest. He shifts awkwardly, and the halfie he’s sporting presses tight against nanoprene and unforgiving plastoid. The bubse tree stands tall and elegant against the wastes.. Rex wishes they’d chosen the substation a few klicks to the east, but he knows it’s pointless. It’s over.

He wonders if he’s making the wrong choice. His brain is analyzing and categorizing and telling him Ahsoka will be okay, that she doesn’t have a biochip in her brain turning her into a meat droid. That he needs to help Cody. But is it _right?_

Ahsoka’s voice interrupts his introspection again. “You wanna dig up some of the roots of this thing? Make some cash to get off world?” she asks, gesturing toward the tree.

Rex lets out a mirthless bark of a laugh. “Pretty sure destroying a protected species without a license is frowned upon around here,” he replies. “Although... “ He gestures around him, the desolate landscape marred by little other than a few shanties dotted closer to the city, and a crashed speeder to the south.

Ahsoka snorts, and steps toward him. “Still kinda bummed our fun got ruined by a coup. I was looking forward to destroying droids and taking designations again.”

Rex smiles and dips his gaze to the ground. “I’ll miss you too.”

His arms are full of muscular but too thin Tog before he has a chance to react. One of her hands is tight against his scalp, and her hard biceps press into his neck. He grunts in surprise, but relaxes into her embrace.

“Hey, Rex?” she says into his ear. He shivers at the feel of her lips skimming lightly over the skin.

“Yeah?” One of his arms is tight around her waist, the other firm under her back head tail, pressing against her neck until he can feel his hand getting clammy from her sweat..

“I love you, you know that, right?”

Rex gulps, and bites down hard on his lip. “Yeah, yeah kid, I know.”

Ahsoka presses a kiss into his neck, and he breaks out in those bumps again as she pushes him away and runs her fingers under her eyes before tapping at his wrist. “Every month, yeah?”

He looks down at the newly modified communicator, and nods.

And then he walks away.

“You too,” he mutters to himself as he stares back at the ground.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Boots on the ground.

He clenches his fist until his gloves creak around his knuckles, and his fingers press into his palm.

Her voice is a mockery of a childish taunt behind him. “I can’t hear you.”

Rex raises his head and tips it to the sky, not quite turning it back. He can’t look.

“I said I love you too.”


	5. 4. Security

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No update for the tags this chapter, however I wanted to warn for a particularly gruesome description of a child's body, so if you don't want to read that then skip from 'take out within seconds' to 'your orders, sir."
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has engaged with this story! I've been so surprised by the response, considering the complete clusterfuck that is the ships I've tagged 🤣 [spoiler] Don't worry, nobody's getting their heart broken
> 
> [stargateinmybasement](http://stargateinmybasement.tumblr.com) continues to be the world's most efficient beta.
> 
> This chapter is longer than previous, however I anticipate this story will close out at around 120-150k, so please be prepared for future instalments to be of a similar length ❤
> 
> [Come follow me on tumblr](http://nottonyharrison.tumblr.com)! I draw art sometimes too! I'm also keen to start taking Clone Wars prompts, so if you have something in mind then please drop into my ask box. I would really like to start doing some spinoff fics related to this story, so if you would like to read an untold tale then I would love to hear from you.

When Rex was a cadet, maybe five or six? If he thinks hard enough he’ll remember but now’s not the time for that. When Rex was a cadet he and one of his batchers had been given a deck of Sabacc cards and one off access to the Holopedia article as a reward for winning a key training exercise. They’d spent the next two weeks trying to hack the access codes and gain access to some of the linked articles, most notably the expanded section on  _ Strip Sabacc _ , however the Kaminoans got wise early on in their endeavor and the attempt had been futile. Regardless, it hadn't taken long for Rex and Choker - CT-7386 as he was still known at the time - to extrapolate ways to cheat in their limited rec time.

They’d figured out early on that their eidetic memories meant they could count cards. Not that they knew counting cards was a thing, they thought it was an entirely new and novel idea that their superior intelligence had dreamed up. Rex had proven particularly adept at it, refusing to give up his secrets until well into the second year of his deployment.

He still has the deck. Or did, at least. It was tucked away on the Resolute, likely in the possession of one of the 501st boys, probably Appo, dog-eared to hell with at least six torn cards that, if you knew the deck well enough, gave away the whole game

Rex shakes his head as he watches the Devaronian bartender pour his beer. He doubts any clones have interest in playing card games any more. The little he remembers of his time under the influence of Order 66 doesn’t give him much hope for the autonomy of his brothers. A few of them knew about Fives, about what they all had thought was a crazy conspiracy theory, but Rex had been through that. He knew that awareness didn’t always mean resistance.

He’s thought about what could have been a hundred times, maybe more. If he’d been more determined to listen. If General Skywalker had somehow deactivated the ray shield and deflected Fox’s blaster bolt. If Fives had thought to look for Ahsoka instead of going to someone inside the GAR. It’s all pointless, because none of that happened. Fives had gone to Kix, and now Fives was dead along with force knows how many others.

The bartender puts his beer down on the sticky surface of the bar, and he hands over a few of the credits he’d stolen from various drunks in the alley behind the cantina. She raises her eyebrow and twitches her fingers..

“Republic credit isn’t what it used to be.”

“What’ll you take then?” Rex asks with a sigh.

“I’ll take ‘em, just not the price on the board. Haven’t got around to updating the exchange rate yet.”

Rex gets the impression she’s talking out of her ass, but nods anyway. “How about twenty?” He starts to dig into his belt, but she reaches out and grabs his arm.

“You a clone?”

Rex makes a noncommittal grunt. He’s stashed his armor in behind a compactor a couple of streets back, and the robe he picked up from a street vendor shades his eyes well enough in the midday sun, but he’s not stupid enough to believe the getup disguises his wide nose and distinctive eyebrows. Ahsoka had told him once it made them all look vaguely pissed off, and the memory makes his chest clench.

“Tell you what,” she starts. The sly look in her eye is unsettling. “I’ll take the ten, and you meet me in fresher two in five minutes. I’m due for a break.” She gestures to the back of the room where a bright pink sign shows the silhouette of a male humanoid pissing.

Rex lifts his top lip in a sneer. “I’ll give you thirty.”

The bartender shrugs, and tilts her mouth down. “Alright then, your loss.”

He hands over the extra twenty credits and turns his back to the bar. He can feel her there, still hovering as if he’s going to change his mind about fucking her in a filthy cantina fresher. He ignores her, instead casting his eyes around the room until they land on a cluster of people around a dark table in the back, cards in hand. He pauses on them, and he senses a flicker of curiosity from behind.

“Looking for a game?”

Rex’s skin breaks out in bumps. He shrugs it off. “Anything worthwhile?”

The bartender laughs, and clicks her tongue. Rex doesn’t turn around. “The table back there is mostly bounty hunters and smugglers. The Weequay’s a pirate but that’s not surprising, right?” Her voice is sultry and Rex rolls his eyes. “I can get you an introduction, I know Champa’s always trying to give away his piece of shit Rigger so he can collect the insurance.”

He'd been planning on trying to win enough to buy his own ship, but winning one would do, too. “How much’ll it cost me?’

She hums. “Fresher two.”

“How about three hundred up front, and half the cash when I win?” Rex asks.

She’s silent for a moment. Rex focusses on observing the table, paying close attention to their mannerisms and trying to pick up tells. The Weequay throws down his cards in anger, and leans back in his chair. It was too dark to be sure, but Rex was certain he’d had had a 22. Playing the long game, then.

There’s a tap on his shoulder and he sees a purple tinged hand out of the corner of his eye. “Alright, deal,” she says.

Rex pulls out a fistful of credits, and flicks them between his hands as he counts them out. The bartender closes her fingers around his as he slaps them down in her palm.

“You a deserter?”

“None of your kriffing business.”

“Alright then.” There’s a jangle as she tucks the credits into a pocket. Moments later she's leading him over to the table, one step ahead with a hand gripping his arm hard, as if she’s dragging him along. “You got a name?”

His mind races for a moment, thinking as quickly as he can in the short amount of time he has. “Codes,” he says, hoping it’s not a stupid decision.

She shoves him forward, and he skids to a halt behind the Weequay. “Got some fresh meat for you, folks.”

Four out of eight heads turn towards them, the rest are either too aloof or too wasted to care.

“What makes you think we need a sprout at the table, Quillteh? We’re full up,” a Twi’lek woman says, The way she’s sitting, the pile of credits, and her position at the furthest side of the group gives Rex the impression she’s the one who decides who’s in and who’s out.

The bartender,  _ Quillteh _ Rex thinks to himself, shrugs her shoulders and points to a human to her right. “Jandrah over there looks like he’s about done.” The man’s head hangs low. He has a drink in one hand, and he jerks enough to spill the brew all over his cards before slumping further down in his chair and dropping the glass.

Jeers erupt around the table. “Come on, Hallara. Let the man in. That banthabrain over there isn’t going to be good for anything other than puking on the table and pissing all over my boots, and we’re only a couple of hands into the match.”

The woman who’d spoken before is silent for a moment, then waves her hand. “Alright,” she says to Quillteh, who's pulled a rag from her apron and is mopping up the spilled drink. “you bring us a fresh deck of cards and get rid of that mess, and we’ll let your friend in.” She leans back in her chair. “What’s his name?” Her sharp eyes peer under his hood, and he hopes the darkness of the corner casts enough of a shadow to obscure his features. Bly had told him about General Secura’s sometimes startling ability to see in the dark, but to this day Rex still doesn’t know if that’s a biological trait, or something to do with the kriffing force. He’d never bothered to look up Twi’lek biology on the holonet, and his brothers only really had interest in what lay below the belt.

He takes a breath and wishes he’d pilfered a muscle relaxant from one of the vendors he’d passed on the way through the city. Jab it in the right vein and his whole face would have sagged like Orn Free Taa’s chins.

“Codes.” Quillteh shoves him in the shoulder, and he exaggerates his movement, stumbling to the side. “Can’t pay his tab, figure he can try and win it off one of these losers.”

Hallara’s mouth twists in a contemplative expression, and one of her tattooed eyebrows raises high on her forehead. “What about bathroom two?”

The Devaronian shrugs. “Wasn’t interested, said he’s not into chicks. Shame, he’s a pretty one.”

“Yeah, he looks like he’s just your type.” Hallara runs her tongue over her bottom lip before biting down and snapping her fingers. A huge man emerges from behind a curtain, and Rex glimpses a large bank of slot machines. “Get rid of the deadweight will you, and bring me another drink.”

The man nods, and drags the drunk human off to an unmarked door next to the fresher.

Hallara leans forward until her elbows rest on the table, and her lekku flop over her shoulders. She doesn’t wear a headwrap, which Rex hasn't seen before. “So, pretty boy.” The headtails curl at the tips in what seems like a thoughtful gesture. “If you can’t pay Quillteh here, then what have you got to put on the table?”

“Security.”

The Twi’lek leans back and laughs. “Oh yeah, what makes you think everyone at this table doesn’t already have that?”

Rex shrugs, and lets his body sway in a pantomime of a drunk man. “Everyone can always do with some extra muscle,” he says, slurring a little. “I’ll do it unpaid, whoever wins me just has to give me the basics so I can stay alive and do m’job.”

She narrows her eyes and her lips tilt in a mean smile. “Very well then.”

_ “What?” _ one of the men pipes up, another human. “How do we even know he’s gonna be worth feeding? For all we know he’s got brainrot or somethin’ and is only looking for some gullible bastard to pay for the immuno.”

“Oh, he’s worth feeding, trust me,” Hallara replies. She nods in his direction. “I’ve seen his breed before.” He supposes that answers the mystery of General Secura’s exceptional vision.

A dubious murmur passes through the group, and Rex leans back in his chair. There’s an activation cylinder lying on the table in front of a hybrid he assumes must be Champa. High stakes mean high reward, and he’d only promised Quillteh half the cash, not the rest of the spoils. He just hopes he doesn’t need to start offering sexual favors in exchange for upping the bet.

He drops the hood and scans his eyes around the table. The man who’d spoken before, a ginger haired human with greyish, waxy skin and a missing eye, nudges the woman next to him and points. She screws her face up in confusion, and the man leans over and says something in her ear. Her face lights up, and she opens her mouth.

“Shut up. I thought your kind had all been outmoded with the rest of the Republic.”

Rex shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. Got kicked out.”

Champa raises his eyebrows and interrupts. “They haven’t wiped out the clones, did you not see that squad that came through last week? All the same kriffing size.’

“Shut up, Champa.” The woman rolls her eyes before she turns back to Rex. “For what?” she asks.

“Frat--” he starts. A drunk man wouldn’t be able to say it without kriffing it up. “Fratermersch-- fraternization.” He drops down into the vacant chair.

“Oh yeah, who’d you fuck?” This time it’s the Rodian to his left. He’s leaning forward in interest, galaxy eyes bright with interest. It was obvious these people either weren’t aware of what happened to a defective or dissident clone. Either that, or they’ve met a few deserters who’ve spun the same story.

“My commander.”

The Rodian lets out a whoop and claps his hands together. “Hot damn, we’ve got ourselves a brotherfucker.”

Rex squirms uncomfortably in his seat.

“Shut up, Deegra. You’re embarrassing the man,” Hallara scolds. “Besides, not all commanders are clones. For all we know he was screwing a Jedi.”

There’s a collective murmur of interest, and Rex decides he’s had enough of dangling the carrot. “Look, are we gonna do this or not, because if not then I have to figure out some other way to pay Quill--”

“You’re in, pretty boy,” Hallara says. “Start thinking about what else you’re prepared to do other than  _ provide security _ .”

The bartender returns with two new decks of cards, landing them on the table in front of the Twi’lek with uncanny accuracy, and Hallara tosses them to Deegra. “Your deal.”

It’s three full hands before the cylinder is in the pot. Rex has been watching the Weequay, Minn, carefully. He’s cheating, which explains his willingness to throw away a winning hand in favor of planting a false tell.

It’s okay, because Rex is cheating too. You can only do so much with a few spare cards up your sleeve, and Rex has an eidetic memory on his side.

He plays up the drunk debtor, not wanting to cause a ruckus once the whole thing’s over. He loses a few hands, some on purpose, some not, but the cylinder ends up in the sabacc pot. He’s not worried about missing his opportunity thanks to a bad deal.

Champa isn’t gracious when Rex wins the match, along with his ship, and he wonders if Quillteh was lying about the insurance scam. He slams his hands down on the table and pushes himself to his feet. “Woah, woah hang on a minute, don’t you want to give me the chance to win it back? It’s not gentlemanly to take a man’s ship and run.”

Rex cocks his head and gives the man a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do I look like a gentleman t’you?”

“I thought soldiers were supposed to have honor! Integrity, all that.”

“Oh, I have honor and--”  _ hic, _ “integrity,” Rex replies. “But I was also created in a test tube ‘n taught to snap a person’s neck at the age of three, so y’know your call if you’re going to try’n stop me from checking out my new ship.” He picks up the cylinder, tosses it up, and catches it with a fumbled snatch. “I hear she’s a real hunk’a junk, hopefully it can survive past atmo.”

He knows the dig isn’t going to do him any favors, and the man tries to leap forward before Hallara claps a hand on his shoulder and tugs him back into his seat with a muscular arm and a murderous glare. “Sit your ass down Champa he won it fair and square. You want to talk about integrity and honor, have some yourself.”

Rex catches Quillteh’s eye, and she emerges from the bar. He grabs a handful of higher value credits and gestures to the rest, a large pile of both currency and valuables.

Her eyes go wide, and she turns to him in confusion. “I thought you said half.”

He waves a thousand credit bar and grins. “Don’t worry, I’ve got my share.”

And with a toss of his cloak, and what he knows is an overly dramatic flounce, he turns and walks out of the bar.

…

“Should I mark him for reconditioning, sir?”

CC-5052 looks down at the subject - a seizing clone - and shakes his head. The unit had been hit with a stun bolt direct to the temple, and had been lying on the ground twitching for the last few minutes. “No, his brain’ll be fried by now. Kill him.”

CT-6985 points his blaster to the ground and fires. The bolt goes right through the unit’s forehead, leaving a smoldering hole in the middle of the red stripe tattoo that had marred his smooth skin. New model, probably no older than nine or ten.

There’s a vibration on his wrist, and 5052 presses a button on the side of his helmet.

“CC-5052.” Mas Amedda’s voice is tinny through the new helmet’s speakers. The old one had been cracked when a spice dealer had hit 5052 over the head with what he assumed must have been a beskar baton. Where a bottom feeder like him had scored a weapon like that, he didn’t know, but he knew the new piece of crap he’d been issued wasn’t going to hold up as well against even the lowest grade durasteel.

“Yes sir,” he replies. He frowns. He shouldn’t be passing judgement on the new amour, it’s provided to them by the Empire, and 5052 is a tool of the Empire.

Amedda says something about Emperor Palpatine’s concerns about terrorist activity in the lower levels, and 5052 looks around the grimy alley he’s still standing in. Despite his loyalty, he can understand why people stuck living in a shithole like this would want to form an insurgency. “The Emperor has informed me you are to be reassigned to the Imperial Sector Police. Your first duty will be to form a task force to investigate the insurgency, and to eliminate the threat.”

5052 raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, sir. Permission to speak freely.” There’s a scream of feedback followed by the low hum of noise on the line.

“Granted.”

“I am concerned the current stock of clones in the Imperial Guard may not have an appropriate candidate for command.” 5052 glances at 6985 and narrows his eyes. The clone does as he’s told like his fellow sergeants, but none of them have the initiative to lead.

“The Guard is to be absorbed into the ISP,” Amedda replies, blunt and to the point. “I’ll send the details to your datapad, in the meantime you’re to continue your command remotely, and delegate as appropriate. Is that something that you can handle, CC-5052?”

He bristles. “Of course, sir.”

“Good. You’re to report to Central Headquarters at oh-six-hundred.”

5052 looks at his chronometer. Five hours, and he hasn’t slept in forty-three. He’s going to need a nap. “Consider it done, sir.”

He glances back at 6985 and the small squad of troopers behind him. They’re all standing waiting for orders, and 5052 frowns.

“What would you like us to do with the body, sir?”

5052 turns away half way through replying. “There’s a dumpster next to you. Salvage the armor and burn the body.”

…

Despite Rex’s insinuation a few days earlier, Senator Chuchi isn’t - or wasn’t, Ahsoka hates to think about the fate of her friend - fourteen. She’d be twenty-two now, young for a politician for sure, but no younger than Padme, or Mon Mothma when they’d started their terms. But then it’s always difficult to judge the age of a Pantoran, and it’s not like Ahsoka doesn’t have plenty of experience with confusing perceptions of age.

Rex is fourteen, though. Sure, he looks like he’s knocking on the door of thirty, but he’s  _ fourteen _ . And force, she’s so in love with him it hurts. It’s not like the infatuation she had with Lux Bonteri, or Steela Gerrera, or even Barris before she’d… done what she did. It’s this stupid, ridiculous yearning that makes her chest hurt, and her brain fizz like bubblezap every time she think about his determination, or his stupid sardonic sense of humor, or his smile that’s like the nearest star peeking through the light pollution of a Coruscant evening. And that time when they’d...

_ Ugh. _

Rex is gone. Rex is gone, and Ahsoka wishes so much that she’d done something more than just tell a friend she loves them. But then also she’s glad she didn’t because it’s wrong. Because despite his insistence he’s an old man who can beat her worldliness any day, Rex is  _ fourteen for force sake _ .

The same age as she was when she’d found herself in the middle of a battle, out of her depth and arrogant, and being told that experience outranks everything..

It’s a train of thought she lets herself indulge in with some reluctance, as she traipses through streets filled with wary Saleucami Pantorans and an energy that isn’t hostile, but is not exactly friendly either.

She’d known life outside of the GAR, but not in any way that could be considered well rounded. When she thinks about it, being a Jedi isn’t that much different from being a clone, just with better luck, and the year she’d spent alone had been more about survival than understanding how to live.

But then she’s not a Jedi any more. Hasn’t been for a long time.

Walking through the streets of Osala is startlingly similar to finding herself alone and without anything other than the clothes on her back when she’d left the temple. She’s been through this. It’s about grifting, negotiating, bartering. Rex hasn’t known anything other than the military and its constant supply of freshly laundered underarmor, bland recommended daily intake rations, and someone always there to give orders.

Not that Rex doesn’t have initiative, because obviously he does but...

That first night on Saleucami had been rough. Sitting on the hard floor of the barn, taking comfort in each other and allowing themselves to indulge their grief for a short time.

_ I have to go back. _

The words have lingering at the back of her mind for weeks. He hasn’t made mention of it since, and she’s chalked it up to fear and uncertainty about living outside of a command structure, but now the reality of Rex’s inexperience among ordinary people outside of the GAR, of his loyalty to his men, of his determination to  _ do the right damn thing _ niggles and causes her to wonder. Wonder and worry.

Ahsoka wraps her cloak tighter around her body, and looks closer at the street vendors. There are a few other species mixed among the Pantorans, but all of them look on edge, like they’re expecting the worst at any moment. Ahsoka goes up to a fruit stall, and scans the offerings. Most are looking worse for wear, a few days old at least and clearly not being put in a coolstore at the end of the day. She smiles at the woman under the awning.

“Hi, do you by any chance have any shuura?”

The woman shakes her head. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. Market’s been cornered by the Imperials, apparently they’re a favorite of the Emperor.”

Ahsoka nods. “Can you point me in the direction of the nearest cantina?”

The look she receives is dubious. “You old enough to be consorting with the kind of scum you find in those places?”

“I’m older than I look.”

_ “Suuuure, _ ” the woman says. “Well the spaceport is a few blocks that way.” She points down the street. “There’s a place right before you hit the engineering bays.”

Ahsoka smiles and thanks her.

There’s a few buildings along the way that are damaged from either bombing or blaster fire, and Ahsoka can’t help but feel sorry for the people who made their homes there. The apartments themselves look long abandoned, but there’s still activity. People clustering around entrances setting up trading operations, or using the broken walls to practice their graffiti skills. Someone had been brave enough to spray a caricature of Palpatine on a boarded up window, and Ahsoka feels a rebellious rush of pride and then sadness. These people want to resist, but it’s bound to end in misery and death.

The entrance to the cantina is crowded, with a group of what looks like pirates standing around smoking and shouting loudly. Tookacalls follow her as she pushes her way through, and Ahsoka grimaces.

“Hey baby you want a ride? I’ve got a long speeder with your name on it.”

She turns as the door opens, rolling her eyes. “See, if you’d said a huge freighter you might have been in luck.”

There’s a chorus of disappointed noises, and she backs into the cantina with a wink.

Drunk pirates are easy pickings, and drunk pirates mean a ship.

…

Even with aids and nannies and house staff, Bail Organa has to acknowledge being a parent is tough. Leia isn’t a placid baby. She’s fussy and cries a lot, especially when unexpected visitors drop by, or someone holds her in a way she’s decided she doesn't like, or the nanowave beeps while she’s waiting for her bottle.

Bail loves her _so_ _much_.

He and Breha had never expected to have children. Despite their longing, they had accepted their line would end with their death, the combined weight of ruling a planet  _ and  _ representing it in the senate were stressful roles that left little time for family. Then Obi-Wan had shown up on his doorstep with a tiny face peeking out from a blanket, spouting words like duty of care, and trust, and  _ for Padmé, _ and Bail had caved, instantly smitten. Breha had cried, not only for the unexpected gift of the daughter they had always wanted, but for the little girl’s mother, their friend.

The new Galactic Empire isn’t exactly keeping him busy, though. While he still has diplomatic immunity, and a responsibility to his people, his days are mostly taken up with holocalls and analyzing bills in the hopes he can usurp any attempts to subjugate his planet. Despite being in the Core, Alderaan has been largely ignored by the Empire, its exports not considered important, and the mountainous terrain and pacifist nature of the inhabitants not of any particular value. It suits him well enough, considering the circumstances. He’s been able to stay home most days, Leia tucked in one arm, and his free hand scrolling a datapad as he scans legislation for potential incursions on Alderaan’s sovereignty.

He’s also cultivating an idea that might bring the whole thing crashing down around him.

He doesn’t want to put his family at risk, but coordinating small acts of rebellion under the guise of visiting his constituents should be easy. In theory, anyway. He has a number of contacts he suspects would be willing to support a rebellion, even have an appetite for it. Perhaps already forming their own strategies. Raymus Antilles had been making noises about his deep dislike of the regime, obvious in his disdain and his disbelief in the proclamations of peace and order.

Right now, Leia is wriggling in his arms as he reads the latest executive order from the Emperor, an edict detailing the Wookie population of Kashyyyk an enemy of the Empire. The invasion will be well underway now, and Bail takes a moment to think of the clones he had met during the past three and a half years. Good men who now appeared to loyally serve a fascist.

It doesn’t sit right with him. Particularly the apparent betrayal of Commander Cody, who he’d met in the early days of the Clone Wars and had come to consider a friendly acquaintance. He could see the bond Obi-Wan had formed with the man, and had wondered many times if their closeness was something more than just friendship formed from shared experience and trust.

The Cody he knew would never turn on Kenobi.

But then Bail hadn’t really  _ known  _ the commander beyond brief meetings and passing pleasantries. Most of the stories he’d heard were third or fourth hand from Padmé, who was parroting Anakin, who was telling a tall tale about some battle or adventure he may or may not have even been present at.

But still… something tells him there’s a note of truth in his musings that are worth pursuing.

Leia lets out an almighty scream, and Bail is wrenched from his introspection. He puts the datapad down, and moves her from one arm to the other. Bouncing. She likes bouncing. And chatter.

“What do you think, young lady? Do you think daddy should show the Emperor where to stick it?”

Leia coos, and then squawks again.

“Yeah, me too.”

...

The fuel depot is a mess, barely attended and those who are present don’t seem to have much investment in the daily operation. Despite his pocketful of credits, Rex doesn’t bother to pay for the fuel. Better to save the cash and risk the ship being blacklisted. He’s not going to need it soon, anyway.

Quillteh wans't kidding. The Rigger really is a piece of shit. The flaps are rusty, there are scorch marks all over the hull, and the interior smells like a combination of bodily fluids, rotting food, and tibanna that makes him retch. He’s not looking forward to spending a day and a half transiting to Kamino, but it’s the best option he has at the moment. Spin a story about a hard landing on a remote moon, the loss of the rest of his battalion, and killing his commander after tricking her into thinking he was trying to help her escape. It’s a spin on the truth and he has no idea if it will fly, but it’s worth a shot.

He doesn’t have any proof of his story, but he knows where he can get it. He just has to make a pit stop along the way.

He’s kept his mind off Ahsoka for most of the day, instead planning his debrief and trying to pick holes in the story, but now all he has for company is a dirty cockpit, a broken fresher, and his own thoughts.

He lets his mind wander as he gets his bearings. He’s never been a particularly good pilot. He knows enough to get from planet to planet, or fly alongside a crumbling Venator when someone’s life depends on it, but he’d always been very much in the lower middle of the class during sims. His first test flight in a real starfighter had ended with him almost plunging into the wild Kaminoan ocean before he’d managed to pull off a fluke maneuver and execute a hard landing on the wrong carrier.

Nothing like Ahsoka. Ahsoka was  _ magic _ . All quick reactions and insane moves all while looking sideways with a dangerous glint in her eye that made Rex hold onto his seat in fear for his life.

It had been the curve of her lips and one of those looks that had given him his epiphany, which was  _ so _ fucked up because she was what? Sixteen at the time? Which he always forgot, because if he thinks about it she’d out-matured General Skywalker pretty early on in their partnership. Always willing to learn from her failures, and constantly observing those around her until she’d started showing a political acuity that had impressed even General Kenobi.

But none of that matters, because he’s going to be an old man by the time she’s thirty, if he even lasts that long.

Which he won’t if events keep their current trajectory.

But it’s worth the shot, right? He doesn’t know if what he’s sensing from Cody is his mind playing tricks on him, or some sort of contrivance of the force, maybe a final parting gift from General Kenobi in the hopes someone will look for his pet Commander, but what does it matter? Kenobi would likely glare at him and say  _ that’s not how the force works _ .

Even if Cody is dead, he can still be of use for a while, perhaps blow up a starship, or figure out a way to attack a mid-value Imperial target from the inside. If the Emperor has a security detail, which Rex's logical brain tells him he must, he could play toy soldier for long enough to work his way into the Senate building and go out in a blaze of ill-advised glory.

Ahsoka would be proud. Enraged, but definitely proud. Not that there would be any way for her to find out some nameless clone who went on a suicide mission was him.

The ship seems like it will hold together, the control panel is sort of in one piece albeit with janky modifications and a layer of grease that smells like rancid food, but she seems worthy of at least one jump. Rex turns his attention to the navicomputer, but when he searches the coordinates for Kamino it comes up empty. He tries manual configuration, but the panel lights up with a bright red INVALID COORDINATE, and he punches the glass hard enough to crack it.

“Fuck.”  _ Of course _ it's classified. He doesn’t have the computer skills to figure out the manual override, and without a droid his only option is…

He turns his head to his helmet, resting on top of a pile of armor in the copilot seat.

“Well then buddy, I guess we’re going to Coruscant.”

...

5052 never did get that nap. Between the trek back to their transport, and the slow movement through the levels of the Federal District, he barely had time to shower, jab himself with two stimpacks, and ensure his jaw was smooth enough to pass a regs inspection before leaving for ISP Central Headquarters

Had anyone ever done a grooming regs inspection? He can’t recall any time in the past few… however long he’d been here. Days? Weeks? When he’d even seen a Normal anywhere near the Coruscant Guard’s buildings, let alone roaming the barracks demanding clones remove their helmets. As long as they’re doing what they were engineered for, and they kept their plain unadorned armor on while they were doing it, Amedda seemed happy enough. It’s about discipline. The regulation manual says clean shaven. End of story.

And it is always armor, the soft shell had gone the way of the neelig the day the Empire had been declared, according to one of his fellow Guard Troopers. Anyone unlucky enough not to have the old phase II armor in their kit had been issued a full set fresh off the line, and it was all crap exactly like 5052’s new helmet.

But he digresses, which he shouldn’t be doing. He was decanted to enforce, defend, and kill. Not ponder the intricacies of the Imperial power structure, or what corrupt industrialist had tendered the lowest bid in the plastoid manufacturing business.

So at 0600, he had walked through the doors of ISP Central, back rigid, shoulders straight, and boots thudding in a rhythmic march against the duracrete floor. The man at reception was a clone, another young one, who had been less animated than most droids. He had scanned 5052’s ID chip, tapped on his datapad for a few moments, appearing to struggle with the gloves against the glass, and directed him to the eighteenth level. End of interaction.

Now, eight hours later, he’s standing in front of another nondescript apartment door in another grotty, dank building. His helmet filters out the stench, but there’s a few Normals in the squad, either too arrogant or too stupid to wear full face protection, and all three of them have gagged more than once.

Amedda’s datafile had been brief. Use police intelligence to investigate and eliminate terrorist threats with extreme prejudice. Full executive authority over punitive measures and recruitment of clone soldiers. 5052 doesn’t see how it’s any different than what he’d been doing the night before, he now just has a less conveniently located office, with no personal fresher and no visitor chair. Not that he used his old visitor chair much, or the office at all for that matter.

But then  _ again _ it’s not his business to ponder the motivations of politicians. He’s a soldier, an organic droid, and soldiers do what they’re told.

_ Good soldiers follow orders. _

One of the Normals makes another gagging noise, and coughs before lowering the heat scanner from his eyes. The man looks like he’s about to vomit all over his highly polished boots. “Four humanoids inside, Commander. Three of them are larger than the fourth, either one of them’s a child, or it’s a species that doesn’t grow much bigger than a ten year old human.”

5052 unholsters his pistol, and takes a step back. “This is consistent with the intelligence gathered by Agent Bowtar. Proceed.”

The group didn’t have much of a chance against four highly trained clone troopers. The Normals didn’t do a lot, mostly just ducking behind crates of munitions while the rest of them engaged in a firefight.

5052 raises his blaster as one of the insurgents reaches into his pocket while fumbling with his own weapon. He’d run out of charge almost as soon as the bolts had started flying, and 5052 rolls his eyes at the man’s lack of discipline. A second later, he’s lying on the floor with one scorch mark in his chest, and another through his eye. He’d been the last, the others taken out within seconds.

5052 walks over to the smaller being who’s lying face down, body almost torn in half by blaster fire and mashed into a take-out container of corellian noodles. The intel had been correct, it’s a human child. Probably about twelve based on the development of the secondary sex characteristics.

A shadow passes over the body, and the Normal soldier from earlier who had nearly puked moves into 5052’s personal space. He does lose his dinner this time, vomit and bile splattering on both his boots and the body. 5052 screws his face up in disgust behind the helmet, and turns his head to the man in disbelief. He might look in his thirties, but he’s clearly green when it comes to even the most basic combat.

The Normal wipes his mouth, and spits. 5052 rolls over the body with his foot, and the torso moves while the legs stay in place, feet still pointing toward the floor.

“Your orders, sir,” the soldier says, clearly attempting to cover for his lack of professionalism.

5052 looks around the room. There are a number of crates to be inspected, but it’s not something he intends to bother himself with. He’s going to go back to the barracks and spend the next six hours sleeping like the dead. “Recover anything that could be of use to other insurgents, then leave the bodies.”

“Wouldn’t it be more sensible to destroy them along with the apartment?”

5052 turns to the man, and steps closer until his chestplate is touching the Normal’s rank badge. He’s short, only a hundred and sixty or so centimeters. Easy to intimidate. “Are you questioning my orders, lieutenant?”

The response is met with a gulp, and a weak “No, sir.”

“Recover anything of value. Leave the bodies. We’re sending a message.”

...

The cantina is disgusting. There’s an obscene sign above a door that must lead to the fresher, and Ahsoka grimaces. Someone grabs her ass, and she moves quickly towards the bar in the hopes she can avoid someone going for the montrals that make their obvious presence known under the cloak.

The bartender is an attractive Devaronian woman with purplish skin, and strikingly uncommon blue eyes for her species that study her with interest.

“Don’t see many of your kind around here,” she says. “What can I get you?”

Ahsoka has never been much of a drinker, her first experience hadn’t been until she was sixteen when the 501st had returned from Umbara. She doesn’t like remembering that night, or the day after. She’s not going to be ordering anything like the hooch the boys brewed in the lockers of the barracks. “Jawa Juice, thanks.”

“Ain’t got none, I can do you a blue milk cooler if you want something light.” The bartender spreads her arms wide and leans on the bar, and Ahsoka shakes her head.

“Just a lager’s fine thanks.” She leans on the bar with her elbow, and takes a look at the clientele. There’s a group in the back around a large table scattered with long forgotten sabacc cards, with a Twi’lek woman holding court along with a frankly enormous Zabrak man who is looming over her. One table over, a couple is attached at the mouth, while a third watches with their hand down their pants. She skims to the other side of the room where the fresher sign is, but doesn’t see a lot of interest other than a Weequay trying to chat up a human woman while swaying dangerously.

There’s a thunk, and Ahsoka turns back to the Devaronian. She reaches into her pocket to pull out some of her small stash of money, but the woman waves her hand. “Nah, babe. On the house. You look like you’ve gone through hell and I recently came into some credits.”

Ahsoka is wary her kindness comes with an agenda, but a small nudge of the force tells her she’s genuine. There’s a curiosity there, too though. “Thanks.”

“You got a reason for being in a hole like this?”

To her right, a man clicks his fingers, and the bartender turns to him with a glare. “Fuck off, Maa’tur I’m having a conversation.”

“Aww, come on Quil. I just wanna drink.”

“You haven’t paid your tab since last Taungsday I ain’t serving you until you show me the creds.”

“I swear, I’ve got a big score coming I just need a few days,” he begs. The bartender’s vestigial bumps move together slightly in a dubious expression. ”That’s what you said last week.”

“Yeah but it’s true this time,” the man replies, a whine in his voice.

The bartender turns back to Ahsoka and smiles, pointedly ignoring the man. “Now, where were we? Oh yes! Are you here for a drink, or something else?”

Ahsoka raises her hands up to her head and drops her cloak. She’s not fooling anyone, and the heat of the bar is uncomfortable. She tugs it off her shoulders and tosses the dirty fabric over her arm. The bartender raises her eyebrows. “Beskar, huh? You Mandalorian?”

“Borrowed it off a friend.”

“Looks made to measure, to me.”

‘Yeah, well we’re the same size.”

“That headband, too? Don’t see too many Togruta Mandalorians.”

“Look, I don’t want any trou--”

“Hey, hey it’s okay. Not trying to cramp your style, just curious.” She grabs a cloth and wipes down the bar. Ahsoka takes a sip of the beer. “I’m Quillteh, by the way.”

“Ashla,” Ahsoka replies, using the name she’d settled on during the long trek into town.

The smile Quillteh gives her can only be described as flirty, and Ahsoka feels heat rise in her cheeks. “Nice to meet you, Ahsla.” There’s a rowdy group at the end of the bar calling for her attention, and she strolls off to pour their drinks. A hand nudges Ahsoka’s shoulder. It’s the man from before, Maa’tur. “Looks like Quillteh’s got her eye on you, little one.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes and turns away, and raises her glass to her lips again before taking a heavy swig. He prods her again.

“You know, normally she’s more forward. Favors fresher two, if you know what I mean?”

Ahsoka sighs. “Is there a point to this conversation,” she asks, not bothering to turn around.

“Just… you know if she invites her back to her apartment you mind letting me watch.”

She fights back the urge to gag, before another voice rings out.

“Kriff off, Maa’tur you utter slime pod,” Quillteh barks. “There are literally no women in here interested in letting you anywhere near their apartments, let alone their bedrooms.”

“Yeah, well I bet that clone in here earlier would have been down for a bit of voyeuristic action, shame you didn’t score that one.” Ahsoka’s montrals prick up at the mention of a clone. She hasn’t seen any military presence in the city on her journey, but she wouldn’t be surprised if there’s at least a few floating around making themselves useful. “I mean deserters are bound to get more action than troopers but still… gotta take what you can get.”

Ahsoka’s heart jumps. There’s no way Cut would have made his way into the city.  _ Rex. _ She turns back around and studies Quillteh as she stares down the guy. Eventually he gets the message and slinks off back to the corner he came from.

“Sorry about him,” Quillteh says. “One of these days I’ll bar him, but he eventually comes up with the creds, and he usually keeps his hands to himself.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “Better than the guy who grabbed my ass when I walked in.”

The bartender laughs. “Look, I’m going to be real forward here and say he wasn’t wrong. I was planning on flirting with you like the galaxy was ending and then asking you back to my apartment when my shift’s over, that something you’d go for?”

Ahsoka lets out a soft laugh, and looks down into her drink. “I’m flattered, but I’m… not looking for that tonight.”

Quillteh gives her a warm smile. “That’s okay, worth a try.” She reaches under the bar and pulls out a bottle, then pours a shot and tosses it back. “If I can’t help you get laid, at least tell me I can give you a hand with something else?”

“I’m actually… looking for a ride off planet.” She cringes and swirls the glass around until the beer foams a little.

Quillteh brightens. “Oh, I can definitely help you with that.” She reaches under the bar again, and reaches around for something. “Maa’tur isn’t the only one who has a bad habit of not paying his tab, and I like to take security.” She holds out her hand, and in it is an activation cylinder. “This guy hasn’t paid me in two months. Haven’t seen him for ages, I figure he’s dead or already off planet.”

Ahsoka narrows her eyes. “What’ll it cost me?”

The other woman grabs her free hand, and places the cylinder in it before closing Ahsoka’s fingers and gripping her fist tight. There’s a warmth that spreads through her whole body, like the force is lighting up inside her. “I think that’s a question you will have to answer yourself, Ashla.”


	6. 5. Without Treaty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has interacted with this story, whether it be comments, kudos, having faith and reading an active WIP, or a message on tumblr. I appreciate every single one of you ❤
> 
> Stargateinmybasement continues to be an amazing beta!
> 
> I'm so sorry this is a little bit late, I got sidetracked by a couple of shippy one shots that exist in this universe (check out the series!), and have been very much focused on working out the basics of a story that will run parallel to this featuring a couple more fan faves. [HMU on tumblr](http://nottonyharrison.tumblr.com/ask) if you have any requests for more expansions to this story, I'm super keen to keep myself engaged, and often that means going off on tangents!

The thing about memory, is that it evolves, right? One day you’ll recall something and it will feel like the only thing separating the you of now, with the you of then is a few grey hairs, and a couple of fresh scars. The next day that same echo of the past is little more than exactly that, an echo. Perhaps a twist of the stomach, or a ping in your brain that fires off an instinctual reaction in your nerves. The moon isn’t either of those, it’s a fresh open wound that’s still seeping poisoned blood deep into Rex’s mind, reminders of digging, and digging, and digging. Of placing the last of his brothers’ helmets atop a piece of durasteel rod salvaged from the wreckage of a place he briefly called home. Of huddling under an emergency blanket, shivering from a combination of shock and grief.

It’s as desolate as it was weeks earlier, the only change a lick of extra cold in the air, and the dust that’s drifted into heavy piles around what remains of the massive starship buried half in the rocky crust. There are still wispy black plumes of smoke coming from the cargo hold, the last gasp of an oil fire waiting on suppression that will never arrive. The silence is second only to the vacuum of space.

The mess surrounding the crash site is bad enough for Rex to land the Rigger on the other side of a ridge, and the trek back to the makeshift graveyard is short but tough. Dust hides rocks that try their best to destroy his ankles, his boots the only thing between him and a snapped achilles. At one point he finds himself waist deep in the fine powder, heart in throat, knees aching, a loud expletive ringing out across the waste and bouncing off debris. The silence is cut through by the repeated _uck, uck, uck_ , until it eventually fades into nothing.

Jesse’s bucket sits front and center, a monument to men whose existence was a betrayal. To The Republic, to their own morality, and to what they’d come to accept as their way of life. Rex feels a surge of anger, and blinks back the sting of tears as he looks over the grey lumps. He crouches down and runs his hand through the dust, gloved fingers dragging a trail of depressions until they stop on a solid object buried just below the surface. He brushes the lightsaber off, and picks it up.

It’s the shoto blade, the one Ahsoka had built after that mess with the Papanoida sisters. The hilt of the other is sticking up just out of his reach, and Rex drops to his knees to reach for it, the smaller weapon held tight in his grip, knuckles pressing against the ground.

Except he doesn’t really reach. He holds his hand out, sure, but the saber makes its own way, hitting his palm with a force that hurts, despite it only being a foot or so from his outstretched fingers.

Rex freezes for a few long moments, before sitting back on his heels and turning the saber over in curiosity.

The dreams. Or nightmares. White walls. White armour. Door panel. Open. _Swish._

They’d been too vivid, too lifelike. Not weird enough.

Or maybe they were weird enough. Like _uncanny_ weird. He can’t really remember them that well, right? They’re just a whisper of a thought, flowing through his mind and hitting synapses and generating emotions that aren’t anything tangible.

Rex has never understood the force. He’s seen Jedi do many impossible things, been the subject of those feats more than once, but right now it’s like he _gets_ it.

Which is stupid, right? Rex has never shown any inclination. Never felt like there’s a power flowing through his veins, or sensitivity towards others outside of basic empathy.

He pushes himself up, and stands staring at the gaping hole in the side of the _Tribunal_. It’s the part of the ship that houses the medbay, and he can see the brain scanner he’d been neck deep in only a month ago.

What if?

He shakes his head, and turns back toward the ridge. He’d reached into the dust and grabbed the lightsaber with his hand, that’s what happened. Memory is fickle, even when you’re the clone of a man who could never forget a face.

…

  
  


Kashyyyk has never been an easy planet to wage war. The terrain is mountainous, with scattered settlements mostly situated in the bays and atolls of the tropics, or thick forests of the temperate zone. Both are a recipe for strained hamstrings and dehydration, the former from the sand and heat, the latter from the messy, lengthy marches through dense foliage and boggy ground.

CC-2224 looks out of the gunship at the forest canopy that shields most of the capital of Kachirho from view, and does final checks on the jetpack that’s going to help him avoid the usual messy lead up to battle. This isn’t about defense, this is about efficient subjugation.

He turns back to the platoon, a mixture of clones and Normie officers all gripping the straps bolted to the roof, and opens his comm channel.

“T-minus thirty seconds, final check in.”

A round of _ready_ ’s ring in his helmet, and the HUD highlights one of the soldiers who had remained silent.

“Lieutenant Devarok, confirm,” 2224 says.

The Normal looks over, a glimmer of narrowed eyes behind the substandard shielding. “Diagnostic reporting malfunction of right propellant chamber.” The deliberately omitted _sir_ irks 2224, but there’s no time for discipline.

“Too late, fly with one.” A sick little thrill runs down 2224’s spine, and he frowns. He doesn’t wish this man dead, losing even one of the platoon could mean mission failure. But then Devarok hadn’t proven himself to be adept at ground combat, his hand to hand and blaster skills left a lot to be desired. He would be more of a hindrance than a help. Either that or blaster fodder.

2224 turns back to the open side of the ship, and starts the countdown.

“Three, two, one, _deploy_.” He leaps out, and tilts himself downward to reduce altitude as quickly as possible. The wroshyr trees are rapidly filling his visor, and he pushes it just a bit further until firing up the jetpack, spinning around to check the status of the rest of the group. There’s a scream coming through the comm, and he looks around until his gaze settles on the source. Devarok is spinning out of control, one leg angled too far back from the momentum, the single jet firing straight into the plastoid covering his calf.

“You see what happens when you don’t check your gear before leaving the hangar, men?” 2224 says. There’s a chorus of _yes, sir_ ’s, and he turns back to the city. They’re about to break the canopy, and as he whips by branches and leaves, his HUD pinpoints a group of Wookiees standing at the end of a long gangway. They’re unarmed, shocked looks on their faces. One of them runs for the building - the Council chambers - and the rest follow a few moments before 2224 lands on the platform with a thud.

He unholsters his blasters, and begins moving forward into the chambers, trusting the briefing prior had been simple enough for the Normie soldiers to understand. He had no qualms about the clone contingent of the group, which were mostly former 212th battalion veterans familiar with the specific type of chaotic aftermath from what had become known as a _Kenobi Special_. The traitor. Only this time there were no negotiations, only the capturing of the capital. Invasion without treaty. No messing about.

A blaster bolt shoots through a crack in the entry, and 2224 flings himself to the side instinctively. It goes wide, a warning shot more than anything, and he holds his left arm up in a gesture to halt. The last of the platoon is landing on the platform, the vibrations carrying up his legs.

“Check in,” 2224 says.

A reply comes from one of the other clones, CT-9962. One of the two from another battalion, the 104th. “All accounted for, sir, excluding Devarok.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” 2224 flicks his HUD to thermal, and the visor lights up with a row of tall white and yellow figures behind the protection of the building’s blast doors. “Eight hostiles counted in the foyer, consistent with Imperial intelligence. We will go ahead with formation sierra, CTs and Lieutenant Sandastra with me, everyone else hold the platform and confirm visual on ground force.”

Another round of affirmatives, and then another voice comes over 2224’s private channel. “CC-2224, report,” Admiral Tarkin barks.

2224 switches his mic over. “Landing at council chambers successful, Admiral. One casualty from equipement malfunction,” he replies.

“Very well. As you know, order ninety-eight is in effect, please ensure any attempt at resistance is met with the appropriate measures.”

_Order ninety-eight - Imperial threat. Execute all civilians who resist subjugation_

“Yes, sir.” 2224 lowers his arm, and primes his blasters. The line goes silent from the other end. Tarkin had shown himself early on in 2224’s posting to be a man who didn’t bother with social niceties like saying goodbye or good luck.

“Troopers, on my mark. Kill anyone who resists.”

…

_Ahsoka walks through the halls of the Jedi Temple, the wide corridors and tranquil atmosphere soaking into her skin until a lightness sets upon her being._

_The corridor twists around her, and changes to the_ Resolute _, the holotable sitting before her with a map of Anaxes rotating slowly. Rex and Anakin stand on the other side, with Master Kenobi to her left, and Cody to her right._

_Then she’s throwing Cody out of a gunship, along with the others, softening their landing before leaping to the ground herself, knees aching from the impact and the sound of the ship exploding in the distance._

_But this isn’t how it went, right? Rex had told her about this mission, The Bad Batch, and finding Echo, and Cody’s week in the bacta tank. She’d been scrounging for rations in the darkest depths of the lower levels at the time._

_Scenes flash past, battle after battle, planet after planet, until she’s standing in her quarters half naked and pressed between the cool durasteel of the bulkhead, and the hot, smooth skin of someone she can’t place. Her hands are pressed against a skull covered in curly hair that’s long enough for her to tug on, a soft mouth pressed against hers almost hesitant, and her eyes flicker open. A scarred face fills her view. Cody. Not Rex._

_Not Rex because Rex is dead._

_A battle, short and brutal, and a helmet with Jaig eyes and a blaster bolt through the forehead. Then rage and pain and desperation until she’s back in her quarters up against the bulkhead with her tongue in Cody’s mouth and his hips slamming against hers, until she rips her face to the right and squeezes her eyes shut, a groan bitten back and tears stinging her eyes as she tightens her legs around his waist and spasms, shame overcoming her as soon as the euphoria is gone._

_Then Mandalore, with Jesse by her side, not Rex. Jesse whose presence is comforting in a way that’s somehow antithetical to Rex’s, all snarky retorts and loose limbs, but nice all the same. But then no moon, just Coruscant, and a sham of a funeral for a traitorous Chancellor, and no Empire._

_It’s all because of_ her _._

_The image of white plastoid with a black burn between blue marking fills her mind until she’s gasping and shivering and--_

“What the _kriff_.”

Ahsoka jerks awake, sucking in the stifling air of the bombed out apartment, and scans the room. Bent door panels with a hole large enough for her to squeeze through, dusty belongings long abandoned, boarded up windows with the early morning light creeping through.

Saleucami, not Coruscant.

She sucks in a heavy breath and sits up on the grimy bed, head in hands and arms resting on her knees.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

…

The wind is getting up when Obi-Wan stops the speeder behind a large cluster of boulders. He’s just within view of the vaporators towering above a cluster of lumps that look somewhat like a camp. He can see movement, a small herd of banthas chained up close to the dome that he would have called his home under the right circumstances, and a couple of tall figures roam the land a little closer to his position.

Obi-Wan has tussled with Tuskens before, however he’s aware the distrust and violence often shown by the race is likely a byproduct of their ancestral lands being slowly encroached on further and further by migrants to Tatooine. The Empire isn’t the only regime guilty of colonialism, and while the Republic was anything but innocent, the Hutts are notorious for leaning on violence and oppression as tools to expand their influence.

So the approach then, has to be one of solidarity. He understands a little of their sign language, however isn’t confident he could replicate the gestures himself, and he doesn’t understand a word of their language which he really considers a personal failing in light of the number of times he’s found himself on this bishwag of a planet. Obi-Wan hopes they can write in Huttese or Basic; despite mostly trading with Jawas with the help of protocol droids, he’s sure they must occasionally rely on supplies from local towns.

He hops down from the seat, and dusts himself off before picking up a small bag and a canteen from the cargo area of the speeder, and slings them over his shoulder. The trek to the farm isn’t long, but an unfamiliar knot of anxiety twists in his stomach as he walks closer to the settlement, head high and what he hopes is an air of confidence about him, a valiant attempt at looking as if he belongs there. Leaving the vehicle on the borders of their land should theoretically be seen as a peaceful gesture, however he does have his lightsaber on his hip should things go sideways.

Which of course, he expects. Because he’s Obi-Wan Kenobi, and if things don’t go sideways then it’s a cold day on Mustafar.

They’ve spotted him now, the two patrolling the land, and there’s a shout. Ten or so more raiders emerge from the camp, and it’s not long before he’s confronted with two rifles in his chest, and a fast diatribe he doesn’t have a hope of understanding.

He puts his hands up, and takes a defensive position, one foot behind the other, leaning his weight on the rear leg. The group who had come from the tents are beginning to circle, all are armed, and silence falls upon the land.

Obi-Wan un-shoulders the canteen, and gestures toward the ground, before leaning down and pointing the cap of it at the sand, his finger not enough to write clearly with the breeze whipping across the plain. He writes _basic?_

One of the Tuskens steps forward and nods, before gesturing to the word and signing something that Obi-Wan loosely translates to _write._

He swipes away the previous word and replaces it with _Trade._

He looks up. The man who now stands a few feet from him makes a gesture of confusion and points toward Obi-Wan’s bag.

Obi-Wan shakes his head and begins writing once more. _Protection trade for water._

The man makes a sound that could be a laugh, and kicks at the writing before pointing his rifle at Obi-Wan’s head and shouting something in his own language. Obi-Wan’s heart picks up. He’s used to meeting alone, however it’s been some time since he’s done it without backup waiting at the end of a comm, and the staccato beat of panic begins creeping through his veins. He drops the canteen and raises his hands.

“I do not wish to harm you,” he says.

The Tusken shouts something else, and jabs the muzzle of his blaster into Obi-Wan’s forehead. His pulse is pounding loud in his ears now, and he wiggles his shoulders and leans, an awkward attempt at revealing the lightsaber beneath his robe. The Tusken tilts his head, and says something to one of the others, who moves forward and shoves Obi-Wan’s robe back.

There’s a murmur throughout the group, and all but the leader step back in fright. The blaster is shoved harder into Obi-Wan’s skull, and he signs the one word he’s confident he can gesture correctly.

_Peaceful._

Another shout, and the Tusken turns to one of the others in the group. They have a short conversation, and the second man moves forward and attempts to pull the saber from its hook.

“It won’t work, the clasp will only unlock with my biometric signature.” Obi-Wan silently thanks Cody and his eternal frustration for the suggestion.

Another instruction shouted ends with a second blaster being pressed against his head, and the leader drops his rifle back over his shoulders and signs _Give us your weapon_.

“No.”

The Tusken understands that, and waves his hands at the rest of the group, who all raise their rifles once more.

Obi-Wan sighs, and nods his head down toward his bag. He’d been hoping to use the contents as a bargaining chip if the offer of protection hadn’t been accepted, and he supposes that point has been reached now. The object had been a challenge to procure, however the scrapes and bruises had been a small price to pay for the treasure.

The leader reaches for the flap on the bag, and pulls out the object, an opalescent green globe still covered in the gore from the beast from which it had been removed.

A hush falls over the group. The leader tucks the pearl under his arm, and crouches down, writing in the sand with his rifle in a somewhat awkward fashion.

_Deal._

…

The speeder is slow on its return, laden with two large tanks filled with water, and a tired man at the controls. Obi-Wan takes a detour, though. It’s only a few extra hours, and it’s been over a week since he last visited.

The Lars farm looks almost identical to the one Obi-Wan left a few hours ago. A dome surrounded by condenser towers, sitting alone in the middle of a desolate sand flat, an anemometer moving in the breeze instead of tent flaps.

Owen is moving between the towers. It’s late in the afternoon, and the first sun is already dipping below the horizon. The shadows are long, and the light is changing from a bright yellow, to a hazy pinkish orange. Obi-Wan looks past the farm to the horizon beyond. He sits down with his back leaning against the parked speeder, and closes his eyes for a moment.

Cody had always said he cared too much, that he shouldered more responsibility than he should, and Obi-Wan supposes he was right. He sits on the border of the Lars’ property, watching over a family whose distrust had led them to banishing him from their nephew’s life, determined to protect the child with the few resources he had, because of a promise he made to a dead woman. A woman who perhaps would have lived had Obi-Wan been more perceptive, or less self-involved, or more critical of his own somewhat rigid way of teaching. Or less obsessed with his role in the war, of his own immediate goals, and more interested in the political climate on Coruscant.

Regret isn’t an emotion encouraged by the Jedi teachings. Learning from one’s mistakes, certainly, however _regret?_ Regret is a byproduct of attachments and affectations one should learn to control, to forgo in favor of serenity, of trusting the force.

As much as Owen Lars does not want Obi-Wan anywhere near his new family, Obi-Wan is determined he will not fail the child the way he failed Anakin.

He opens his eyes, and pushes back up to his feet. He squints at the house, where Beru is now standing at the door, the baby in a sling around her torso as she gestures to Owen. Everything appears well.

Obi-Wan gets back on the speeder and heads home.

...

There’s resistance. Not that 2224 wasn’t expecting it, Wookiees are a race of warriors after all, but the massacre is bloodier, dirtier, and goes on for longer than anyone was expecting.

It’s when he’s arm deep in the chest of an enemy soldier, gore coating his armor in an unnecessarily brutal example of what clones had been engineered and trained to do if they lost their weapons, that something in his mind switches.

It’s only for a moment, at most twenty seconds. Like someone had hit an access panel, and he’s seeing a glimpse into a room he’s not supposed to know about. It’s familiar though, like somewhere he once called home, and as he looks down at the now dead Wookiee Cody feels the bile rising in his throat and wrenches his hand back, still gripping the heart. He opens his fingers, and drops the muscle before scrambling backwards on all fours.

Cody gets the helmet off just in time to empty his stomach all over the polished wooden floor of the chamber. Smoke fills the room, as does the sound of battle and death. A scream echoes down the corridor to his left, human, and then the sickening sound of a neck breaking and plastoid hitting something hard, before a blaster shot, a roar and a thud, and a moan that sounds like that of a dying man.

And then it’s like the door has snapped shut, and 2224 is back in control. He looks down at the vomit splattering the floor, and wrinkles his nose in disgust before pulling the helmet back on. He should report himself for showing such weakness when this is all over, but for now, he focuses back on the last men standing. Three enemy soldiers currently engaged and on their last legs, with only two of the platoon down, Lieutenant Sandastra and one of the younger clones, CT-557-7845. Neither were any real loss, 7845 had been an adequate soldier, and Sandastra was nothing special, just another Norm who wanted to climb his way up the command chain. He was one of the few 2224 had heard defending clone troopers however, and he recognizes they may have lost an ally.

His HUD fuzzes for a moment, and 2224 hits the side of his helmet to clear the display. He must have taken a blow at some point, that would explain the nausea. The internal speaker crackles to life. “Commander, confirmation of secondary breach, ground assault team has infiltrated the lower levels of the council building.”

“Acknowledged.” 2224 glances back over to the other side of the room, where the last enemy has fallen, the head flopping to the side in a way that gives him a view of dead eyes with a blaster wound between them, adding a fourth black spot above the nose. “Upper chambers have been secured, you are clear for entry.”

There’s a noise from the corner, and 2224 spins around. A trooper stands over a single prisoner, who is on her knees with hands bound in thick durasteel cuffs, and a rifle pointed at her skull. “This one surrendered, Sir. What do we do?”

2224 narrows his eyes, and walks closer, collecting one of his blasters along the way. The life sign data shows the Wookiee’s heart rate is unusually slow for someone who had just witnessed a slaughter. There’s a subtle flex to her wrists, and it feels like everything hangs in the air for a moment, before she’s flinging herself to her feet and smashing her wrists into her kneecap. The cuffs go flying, but 2224 is faster, his blaster fired before she has the chance to disarm the trooper at her side, and she drops to the floor unmoving.

2224 turns his head to the other clone. “Assume everyone is resisting, Sergeant.”

“Yes, Commander.”

There’s a loud explosion from the lower levels, and the group crouches reflexively as dust and debris rains down from the ceiling. The sound of blaster fire echoes up through the elevator shaft, and 2224 strides over to the control panel and opens the doors. The view is one of inky blackness, until he flips on the headlamps. Rebar and debris fills the shaft a few levels down, and the durasteel groans.

There’s a clatter from behind, and he turns back to the main doors. The Normal officers have arrived, and 2224 nods in acknowledgement. “The explosion has damaged the elevator shaft, I need you four to retain this position, keep an eye out for insurgents. We’ll take the stairs and meet the ground assault team on their way up.”

One of the men nods. “Yes, sir.”

The next ten minutes are mostly uneventful. The building is emptier than expected, and after passing a few posters in the hallways, 2224 realises it’s due to the Empire’s complete lack of awareness or caring when it comes to local planetary culture. Despite not understanding the l language, 2224 is smart enough to infer the meaning of the artwork. It’s a religious holiday.

How in the karking force anyone had failed to realize that is beyond him.

Everything seems to point to some kind of mass celebration, however thermal readouts of the city hadn’t shown any large gatherings, instead indicating normal population distribution. 2224 turns to the rest of the platoon. “Any of you read shyriiwook?”

The whole group shakes their heads, and once again 2224 is frustrated by the sup-par quality of the new kit. His old helmet would have translated for him without even needing a prompt.

He takes a holoshot from his wrist comm, and opens a line to the command center. Tarkin’s voice once again echoes through the helmet. “Report, 2224.”

“I’m sending through an image, Admiral. Please ask the intelligence officers to provide a translation, I believe our attack strategy may require adaptation to ensure success.”

“Are you calling my methods inadequate, 2224?”

“No, sir. However I suspect we may have chosen a day of planetary holiday to schedule our invasion.”

There’s a protracted expletive, and the line on the other end is muted. 2224 waits. It’s just over two minutes before the Admiral returns to the channel, his voice tense. “This could work in our favor, Commander. The celebration is one of peace and remembrance, with a parade scheduled for late in the afternoon. I suspect with the events at the council chambers, this may no longer go ahead, however historical data suggests all bar a small group assigned to protect strategic assets lay down arms.” He pauses. “We shall continue with the invasion, however I am dispatching bombers. You are all to remain in position until the bombardment of the city ceases.”

“Yes, Admiral Tarkin. And after?” 2224 asks.

“All troopers are to sweep the city for survivors. Kill anyone requiring more than rudimentary medical attention, and capture the rest.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

…

Exhaustion is beginning to set in. Rex hasn’t slept since that last night in the Saleucami wastes, his bedroll close to Ahsoka’s as she kept watch, her hand occasionally resting on his shoulder when he jerked awake.

Her sabers sit on the console, one shorter than the other. Innocuous. Inert.

Rex picks the shorter one up, and his thumb hesitates over the switch. He puts it down again and rubs his hand over his forehead, eyes closed tight and a heavy breath passing through his nostrils.

Time to go.

He flicks the fuel primer switches, and tilts the control lever until the Rigger slowly begins raising up off the dusty surface, the wreckage coming visible slowly over the crest of the hill. He imagines he won’t be seeing this scene again, and he’s glad. Row upon row upon row of buckets dot the surface, and Rex closes his eyes for a moment and hangs his head.

“May the force be with us, as they are with the force.”

The ship shudders, and he jerks, eyes flying open. Clouds have overtaken the view, and Rex shakes his head, readying the computer for the jump to Coruscant. He pushes the memories of his brothers to the back of his mind, instead running through the story he’s planning on spinning once he reaches Imperial space.

Maul escaping, the chase through the Venator. A battle in the hangars, just this time with Rex at the helm instead of Jesse. A fight, a fall. A last minute attempt at escape on a ship that had a malfunctioning navicomputer and a hit and hope manual entry to a place he had bad memories of, but knew he could run repairs. A hard re-entry, and a set down on the nearest appropriate site. Weeks of walking and surviving off scavenged animal remains and foraged fruits. The sequestering of the Rigger in the name of the Empire.

The return, no mention of the salvage of one final brother who he propped up in the wreckage with a shovel shaped piece of durasteel, his body already decomposing in his armor despite the dry air. A satisfactory patsy to explain away the graves should the Empire ever visit.

The sabers, then the ejection of Ahsoka’s body into space, where he could be sure she would never reanimate, because who knows what shenanigans the force can conjure up, right?.

It’s an alright story, he supposes. A few holes to plug up, perhaps some thinking on his feet during the inevitable interrogation. He’s more worried about the chip, though. Or the lack of it.

He still remembers how it felt, almost like an out of body experience for a moment as he fought the programming, before it was all just… blank. But a strange kind of blank because he can still remember the actions, the feel of his blasters in his hands, even the thought process. But emotions? Nothing.

Rex shivers, and turns his focus back to the viewport. The sky has darkened to the inky blackness of space, dotted with the trillions of stars, worlds, and celestial bodies he’s become so familiar with over the last four-odd years.

He can feel sleep trying to rear its head, pricking at his eyes until they drift closed of their own accord, and he jerks up before slapping himself in the cheek.

“Come on, Rex. Keep it together.” He turns his focus away from the stars, and back to the navicomputer. The route is plotted for Coruscant, and he enters the last few authorization codes before pushing the control lever to its forward position. The Rigger jerks, and the galaxy shifts from pinpricks, to streaks, to the swirl of hyperspace.

Rex flops back heavily against the pilot’s seat, and lets unconsciousness take over.

…

_He’s flying out of a gunship, that weird sensation of a force user controlling his descent, and the landing is hard, but at least he’s not a smear of blood and skin in the rough surface of Anaxes._

_Ahsoka is there._

_But Ahsoka was gone, she left._

_She hadn’t said goodbye._

_But Cody… he’s okay. He's standing right there, to his left, hand on Rex’s pauldron._

_Then there’s a battle, the ground is soft and grassy. Not Anaxes. Somewhere else, a planet Rex hasn’t been to before._

_There’s a bright light coming right toward him and then._

_Then only darkness._

_Is he dead?_

_It’s like he’s floating, he’s still there but not corporeal in some way. The walls of the_ Resolute _are the same as always, with the same people, the same twists and turns, the same compartments for the same purpose. Except he doesn’t need codes because he’s standing outside Ahsoka’s quarters one minute, and then he’s inside the next._

_She’s not alone, she’s up against the wall, hands buried in curly black hair, and heels digging in to bare skin. Her eyes are closed tight as she opens her mouth in a silent gasp, tears running down her cheeks._

_The naked back of the man she’s with, it has a scar Rex has seen a thousand times. In the fresher, the medbay... in his own bunk._

_Cody._

_Then another shift. Mandalore. The tattooed forehead of Jesse turned toward her, smirking and cracking wise. Then Coruscant. A funeral. An orange hand in a black glove, the plastoid armor of the man’s arm streaked in the orange paint of the 212th._

_The Republic banner flying, and the unmistakable feeling of peace._

_He should have found her. It’s all because of_ him.

...

**_Saleucami, eight days earlier_ **

The air shifts when a ship is about to land. Even if it’s in one of the far paddocks, there’s a change, like the wind decides it’s not sure what it’s doing any more, and it would much rather create a void around the house, casting a sense of foreboding over the farm that may or may not be accurate. Suu had felt that feeling a few weeks earlier.

She stands at the door, watching the shuttle as its wings fold up, and the crops whip until they’re lying flat against the ground. Dust, and the smoke from the remains of Rex and Ahsoka’s ship blows toward the house. She grimaces as it stings her eyes. The ramp drops.

White upon white upon white, with one single grey uniform standing at the head.

They’re here.


End file.
